Long hair in a loose braid, strands falling out at every twist, little flower earrings, multiple bracelets around her wrist along with a few hair ties. B is similar. Just add long pointy nails, each one painted a different color, and a mane of unfurled hair.
Both are young, soft, smooth. They are unfolding. Never more have I been reminded of the observation that youth is its own beauty. They are beginning to exude something that is their own, that feels sacred, holy, beautiful. And it’s something that is completely different from when they were six, or two. The way those color-adorned fingers wave around to illustrate a story. The curve of a neck adorned by a loose curl. A rainbow of straps peeking out from under their sweaters.
As I straggle my way out of illness, limping and hacking along, I feel particularly haggard. It’s ok, but I can easily forget about that sense of presence that I see in them. The growing urge to experiment — to delve inside and enjoy putting myself out into the world. How they glow with possibility each morning as they face getting dressed. A gentle antidote as I come back to an active life.