Their laughter is pure angels wings, swooping back and forth intrepidly through the hallways of my parents high ridge home. Each kitchen table, chair, and cabinet, a tree or lake glided past in God's country. Their flight, just dodging my pretend outstretched finger tips; we make believe ardent pursuit, this game of chase; all the while they grow ever more anxious to be scooped up into my unsleeved angel nets, they turn their course back my way, and wrapping the full circumference of my reach around both their bodies, I thrust them upward and offer their hysterical shrieks of euphoria to the ears of God himself.
1 comment:
Sweet as ever.
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