Grace notes

The bright white melon slice of the moon tonight hangs in the blue sky. So clear and bright in the twenty degree air, the top circle, the shadow of where I stand, is gray and visible. Bare trees reach up, straining for the coming spring sun. There is no blue as deep and clear as the Midwestern winter evening sky--the bottom third above the horizon light, pale, fading into the deeper color. I have seen the Caribbean, the high Mexico desert, Pacific, Atlantic and Gulf of Mexico waters, the sky in the Austrian Alps. Nothing, save maybe a particular part of Monet's lily ponds, matches this blue.

I have my sweet son back after his vacation in Port Huron: time spent with his beloved cousin, auntie and uncle, and friend Linda. I love having him back, the rhythm of our life together restored after the quiet distance of his absence. Clean sheets on our beds, I secretly hope he will waken and crawl in with me sometime between now and dawn. I'll have pajamas on, not like when he's gone and I have the luxury of naked sleep. I missed the sweet breath of his morning sleepiness on my pillow for two long nights.

My sister and I hooted late into last night over wine, Facebook, old friends found, and our shared excitement over discovering online Scrabble. Each of us has found our lost best friends from elementary, middle school, and college. Bright melon memories lit our smiles and tales. Our sons sleeping in shared space, we marvelled over the hues of our lives.