Those Boys

Those boys hold my beating heart in their hands. I cry over it all— their births, their sweet, soft skin given to me, along with murmurs. Even their cries touched my very being. At six and seven, I loved their dirty hands and faces, their vivid imaginations, and all-day boy dreams played out at their roughly made fort. A bicycle ramp, built by hand and used daily. Eats and Treats— an early entrepreneurship. Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and drinks, sold to neighbors for a dollar, all pulled around the neighborhood in a red wagon. Now they are more than grown; they are old. I look at them as my greatest blessing, and my cries are happy now over the joy they still bring to my life.