Every time Joseph sees a flower, he runs over and pulls it, roots and all, out of the ground, and then he gives it to me. It’s early spring, and he can’t reach the pink cherry tree blossoms or the white apple blossoms, so his offerings are closer to the ground, stubborn.
My hands smell like dandelions and dirt at the end of the days because he’s always filling my hands with his gifts.
The girls pick their little weed-flowers and wander, as on a cloud, but Joe never thinks of keeping a single one for himself.
“My wanna give my flower to mumma.”
We were at a little wilderness sanctuary the other day, the fields were full of dandelions, and I looked at him, crouched intent on a small hillside, hauling bright yellow dandelions out of the dirt, and turning towards me, with his face alive at the joy of giving gifts. He’s not so tiny anymore: he’s all boy with strong muscles under that constant hockey-jersey.
He stood up on that bright green hill, tall, the sun was on the water behind me, and he stumble-ran, an oversized puppy, tumble-bumble, pell-mell, down the hill to me. He’s a complex and wild-loving boy and his gigantic toothy smile nearly made me drop to the ground. There is too much God in such unselfish delight to behold it unveiled, perhaps our shadows help us take in such holiness. I had a moment of uncomplicated joy, just for a second, without a single shadow or doubt or distraction, I opened my arms up to him, he ran straight to me, his hands full of weeds he longed to give away. I braided a crown out of his smashed and wilting dandelions, and I wore it in my hair. Who cares who cares who cares what anyone thinks, there is so much love.