My boys find a project box with glow-in-the-dark inks. I work on my couch, computer in lap, hoping ibuprofen kicks in.
They call me and I hear it. They push the screen away, grab my hands, and I obey.
In the bathroom, they close the door. The three of them there with the lights out, the big boys with their paper and glowing ink.
And I can’t see them anymore – all pitch dark. The four of us, and I shrink as they grow equals in infinity of black. I can’t feel myself, can’t see, could be three feet tall on the other side of the moon. Who knows how big the dark can get? Who cares?
The glowing yellow moved like a shooting star. Galaxies. Children laughing, and I was there suddenly
in Alabama, outside after sundown – sister too, laughing, clean-faced, the big unafraid dark.
Remember when you didn’t know what sex was, except that it maybe had to do with the tea ceremony in Karate Kid 2? So much of our heart is always child, the innocence here – I’ll remember my boys this way – roarous laughter, lights in the dark.