This morning, my teenage boy and I
sit quiet on the couch. He does not move
to pick up his phone. I do not rise to work
or rush to make a meal. We sit, leaning
the trunks of our bodies into each other.
We do not say much. I close my eyes
and cherish his sapling weight.
There are so few people I dare now hug—
our hands, our bodies dangerous—
but here in this house so still I can almost
hear him growing, here in these minutes
that fell off the clock, here I remember
how surely we baptize each other with touch.
Such simple blessing. Silence. The metronome
of breath. The leaning in. Infectious love.