{like snowflakes}

I type this as they read.  Snuggle piled each sweetly under their covers.  By lamp light, the rain outside their bedroom windows offers rhythm.  With the next word.  And righteously onward with the next sentence.  The stories made real by their eyes are their beginnings of something more.  Past me & beyond their Daddy, too.  They travel distances alone & yet kept. I imagine their toes are twisting, bare & growing, a bit more into their quilts under which they rest as their pages turn.

I have two.From my womb, I was chosen worthy.  One deemed by God's great command to give life.  Yes, give it.  Offering someone else's breathes to the world only to wait and see what the world becomes because of what was built there in my womb.  All because I chose to give.  Freely, with great sacrifice and high demand.  Gifted.

And one's ribbons are turned in.  His wrapping paper is muted in tones.  Nothing jeweled or sparkly. Far from noticeable, he hopes.  He's wrapped tightly & with precision.  Highly adept & easily distracted, you'll find a corner or two a wee bit tattered or torn.  Inside his wrappings, he holds heart.  It beats in the details around him.  The ones no one even realized he sees. Faster, his pulse gauges distance and depth perception in those he seeks. Wonder if I am a good fit for them?  Does he see me? I think he is pretty cool. Internally his gift searches. Internally he knows safe.  Internally the gift of him settles more into me.

And my womb wrapped one festive and flamboyant just the same.  Outward. Upward. Moving. Engaged.  The gift of this life can hardly stay creased with all the goings-on around him.  Its bow lies loosely and half-looped there on his iridescent & busy foldings.  Corners crooked and half-taped. Rattling a nonsensical commotion there within his binding.  He's shakable. And he wonders not. He only moves within. Changing you as you open him a bit more. Manipulating the very soft spot you know as your center.  Transforming your very ideas of capability.  Yes, even expanding your senses to a tactile you've never known.

My gifts.  My handwombmades.

Of one I am more akin to the other.  For my mother's womb knows. Freely she gave me to this world.  With high demand and great sacrifice, she, too, watched on to see what would become of this world from the wrappings their inside.

More like one, I am most certain.Being made more from the other, I am just the same.  Growing from the gifts I was worthy of wrapping there inside my soul.  Womb made.  Worthy & free.  With high demand & great sacrifice, I can hardly wait to see what this world becomes. Like snowflakes, we all fall.