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It's iced water through a straw and the whirring click of a mechanical swing. It's a baby snoozing and swaying to the tempo in a quiet corner of the living room.
It's pens with cooperative ink, and stories with lots of pictures. A midnight wander to a mailbox wrapped in white roses and the pincher bug picnic inside it.
It's preached by orange flyswatters hitting their mark and the whispers of a ceiling fans in July.
It's the gifts I take for granted.
The weight of wonder we carry in our hand, in a day, in a minute? We often don't see what we're holding, focusing instead on the things that are missing; the vapors, the goals, the dreams.
Even babies can become routine.
I marvel at this, how the miracle becomes the burden at 2 a.m.
I march up and down the dark hall and by daybreak my tired head knows the truth: Thankfulness is a sacrifice. I growl. I bury my head in soft pillows and rub my foot against the sheets, rebellious against the dawn. I'm a Morning Monster, angry about the sleep I lack.
Finally, I chose. Raising my head my feet touch the ground and I take the flame of sunrise, light a match of gratitude, and burn the have-nots and the want-so-muches until all that remains is the what-I-have, and it is enough. I tumble to my toothbrush.
My soul can barely whisper it, the Chosen Thank-You.
Thank you. For everything.
It's a murmur, it's a choice, it's the only way to see. It's the only way to live.
