The Boy lies on our bed between us after his father bids him come.
He is thirteen.
Thirteen, and I can feel the pressure of unspent tears in him at what the world serves up on its not-so-silver platter.
His head lies on The Shoulder's shoulder, and a holy hush falls over the three of us.
I trace his face with my fingers, and his father tells him he's proud.
I rub his head, but his father tells him that he's brave.
I press my fingertips into two beloved drops of molasses moles, while his father tells him he's precious.
I tap "I Love You" in morse code on that collar bone, the one he broke in his hurry to escape the womb, and his father holds him close and tells him that he's the future.
I pat his chest, but his father tells him that he will be a good husband.
I try to fan his lashes, poke his eye instead, while his father tells him that he will be a good dad.
We pray for him, and I watch his face fight tears and smiles.
We fall silent.
Loving our son and...
Allowing God to heal and touch us all in this moment.
This holy moment,