Hold Me My youngest child an Ozark whisp, a collection of reed-thick bones and knobby joints, asks to hold me, reaching.
Hold me? I ask, and Intuiting toddler’s inverted language, our reaches meet, mine and his, and with a tensing lower back, I swing him to capable frame, to his pillow of neck and collarbone.
Hold me? I consider, and intuiting another coming inversion, I remember the way of life. There is my mother; how she cradled her father in his rising twilight; how her aging arms slipped under his thin-skinned shoulders and knobby knees. She bent, huddled, and whispered secrets of the wonders of a world without end.
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