It is not even 8 am, and I hear
the engine of your pickup zooming up the driveway.
You have forgotten something.
Truck door slams, your steps thump across the porch,
the mudroom door opens, closes …
My ears trace your journey through our home,
up the stairs. You are close enough that I hear you humming
or maybe singing under your breath.
There is a rushing in my chest —
I allow myself to receive it —
You are alive
Your body is strong enough to rise early,
to run up stairs,
Son, I was not sure this day would come,
(Can we ever be sure of days to come?),
but here we are
an ordinary day in which you swing a shovel,
work up a sweat in the summer sun.
So many weak, bed-ridden days we have had together, you and I.
We are forever changed.
And this Ordinary day of an Ordinary Life feels unbearably beautiful.
Even more so, when I reflect . . .
Could we have had THIS day, this moment
without all that came before?
Did all those sleepless, trembling, chemo-soaked yesterdays
lead us to this place?
Where we see ordinary as exquisite, dear and remarkable?