My sons' eyelashes, black and curled up toward his hairline sometimes make me stop what I'm doing and stare. When they crack each other up I see them forming the natal stage of a friendship, a club, that I won't necessarily always be part of but am privileged to stand witness to. My son grabbing the little one under his chin in an effort to pull him off the ground to stand, and his attempts to follow my directions to put his hands under his arms, under his arms, no no, under his arms. The little one's patience during this hilarious exercise.
Beautiful- new curtains framing a room that I envisioned and am almost finished with. Creating my space and seeing what I dreamed possible come out even better than I expected. Husband's exasperated but ultimately willing help making the dream come true. Teamwork, building our home together. Making it ours for our children.
Beautiful is great-grandmothers talking softly to great-grandchildren. Her memories of all of her children, grand, great-grands, the way she remembers the details of her children's playing, accidents, achievements. The way she's stored particular moments with grandchildren running through her modest but most comfy, most sweet-smelling, most warm and homey-home of all homes. The way she still and always will get so excited to see us. We were the highlight of her summer...until my sister visits with her new son, and that will be beautiful, too. I remember bringing both of my sons to her after they were born. We travel a long way to make sure Nene sees her babies. And there it is- that ultimate beauty, not caught up in any of the silly words our society seems to attribute to beauty, having nothing at all to do with skinny, smooth, sexy, and yet the most beautiful thing I have ever experienced, four generations under one roof, sharing a meal, laughing at the newest little love as he fist-shovels his first serving of Nene's banana pudding into his happy mouth.