Precarious Kites
(Grace Notes)
Pure Love

His Pies, Lemon Zest, and Sticky Floors
He’s twelve this week. The first pie he made was lemon meringue. It sloshed and puddled inside its damp crust. The meringue covered the slightly soupy results. He carried it from the oven, set it on the table, beamed.
Lucas Still
Lucas comes out of the water like a split-limbed seal, black and slick in his half-wetsuit. His arms and legs protrude, brown and dark like his father’s, my grandfather’s, like ancestors from generations past who surged forward through deserts or on boats across seas and waves. The sun plays host in his skin and lives there
A baby the size of a sugar bag rests on her chest, swaddled in flannel and a too-big crinkly-plastic diaper. The baby is nursing and the mother watches the small space of light that shows between her child’s eyelids almost closed. It is hard work, this sustenance gathering and the baby is focused, settling moment by moment into a rhythm, one small hand flailing a bit in the air. The mother takes the hand, settles it near her clavicle, covers it with her palm and holds: the first sheltering.