Thursday, June 2, 2011
Feathers. Feathers. Feathers.
The boys were in to making birds. Styrofoam ball birds with google-eyes and shish-kabob beaks.
Birds that rest in the fruit bowl and protrude from plants.
Birds that shed feathers, blue, red, and gold, in every nook and cranny. Birds that create a mess while being created.
Birds that were about to send me to mother madness.
I was hot on the trail of a purple feather when my Hoover fell silent. Logan. Six-foot-something Logan. Age nineteen Logan. Heading-out-the-door-for-first-day-of-summer-work Logan. The vacuum cord dangled in his hands.
“Bye, Mom,” he said. “I love you. Have a good day.”
Swift kiss on the cheek and he was gone.
The days whisper past. Most of the time, I don’t even realize how fast they’re moving. But little boys grow into young men and messy, wispy Styrofoam birds don’t stay around forever, either.
I gave Logan a hug and went back to chasing the feathers.
This time with a smile.
Lord, Your Word tells us that our lives are like a mist. Help me to love every single day.