Like when Toby and Charlie stand in the church parking lot watching a train go by.  The wheels shriek wildly down the rails carrying a bazillion tons of metal.  “Be careful!” I say as if the train might suddenly derail, mysteriously roll across the highway, strangely bounce upon their fragile, tiny selves.  You are overreacting, I think, but I pull them back a little anyway.

Before nap, when I sat beside Charlie on the bed, he rubbed at his legs as if some invisible agent were eating at his bones.  “Boo boo,” he said whiningly and I kissed his shins, mentally sprinting past growing pains or itchy pants and aiming straight for cancer.  Later when Toby scratched his legs too, I realized it was just bug bites from the yard.  Of course…

Yesterday I tried to get some stuff done.  Every few minutes Toby would poke me with some irrelevant question about tornados or train tracks.  Over and over Charlie opened and slammed his bedroom door, running in and out with extreme cheerfulness yelling, “Night, night!” and “Good morning!”  They fought over the blue steam engine, a crinkled CD insert, cheese sticks.  Sometimes they drive me crazy.  I hope I don’t take them for granted.

That is how I make the best of things like loss or uncertainty. What better gift could I offer a grieving father? I scoop Charlie up and press his cheek against my chest, feel his runny nose wet the collar of my shirt.  I am so grateful that this noisy, strong-willed boy is mine, even just for today.  A beautiful muse, indeed.