He’s been singing for over an hour.

In his room, studying for exams, with the door closed…singing.

No matter where I go in our home, I can’t escape his song.  This son of mine, prescribed as tone deaf by his preschool teacher (only to me, not within his hearing).  She wasn’t being unkind, simply honest, genetic disposition bequeathed from his father’s pool and mine.  Thankfully, we have other strong suits.

And he’s singing while he studies for exams.  Loudly, cheerfully, as if no one is listening.

He’s dancing like no one is watching.

Except I am, I am watching and listening and treasuring this joyful n o i s e  in my heart.

He’s my baby and his older brother and sister are flying.  He stirs in the nest and there’s lots of room there,

so much room,

and soon enough there will be too much room and I know it.

It’s Christmas time and we’re counting days and I remember the babe born in a place where there was no room.

He squawked first breath and angels sang and wise men came and his mama treasured all the goodness therein and held it heart-close.

All mothers are kindred spirits.

We birth miracle.

Miracle!

Every new life changes the whole of earth, making impressions small or large.

His voice warbles and wanes and he sands my spirit smooth.

And love came down and tendered me to love him like no other can or will or would even want to.

Mother-love changed the way I see and hear and think and feel, and stripped away condition.

And musical notes out of kilter are love notes to me, worthy of holding heart-close.

Angels need not sing nor wise men come to visit for me to spot a treasure.