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 —

tinkling, playful,

joyful.

I allow myself to receive it —

Gratitude.

You are alive

Your body is strong enough to rise early,

to work,

to run up stairs,

to sing.

Son, I was not sure this day would come,

(Can we ever be sure of days to come?),

but here we are

living

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?