It’s their laughter that beckons me outdoors. I can hear it through the thin glass of our hundred year old windows as I stuff school papers in folders.
I look up from the stuffing of papers to really see them. My last babies, with heads full of my curls and eyes framed with their daddy’s lashes. I love the way the summer humidity makes their hair curl in ringlets that bounce when they giggle together.
I grab my camera to save what is running like water through my hands.
Tiptoeing over the sparse grass, I watch my baby girls tumble into the dry patches that I step over. Their bare feet run over the brittle grass and beat it down a little more.
I point and click and the sunlight works hard to steal my moment. I move and the girls move faster and before I know it, I forget the lens and look with uncovered eyes.
How can I hold tight to what really isn’t mine? How do I hold these girls in my palms and keep my fingers from closing in around them forever?
I blink and they tumble again and I remember my camera.
Lifting the lens, I point and click a few more times.
Oh, how I long to hold tight to these babies who seem to be running just beyond my reach…