"It's my turn now, isn't it Mom?" Firstborn inquires,
with hope in his voice.
I look his way, semi-smile, knowing that waiting
is a hard lesson. "In a minute."
His eyes.
That look.
I know it all too well.
I've felt it come over my own countenance many times.
And so he takes to the grass nearby.
Knees bent, head down.
I watch.
He bears the disappointment, the coveteous thoughts,
the ache of waiting and hoping.
It takes him a moment (or two), but he finds it- contentment- so that resentment does not ruin his brother's present joy.
Finally, his time has come.
He grabs grass rope with growing hands.
His turn is made better by the wait.
Take your shoes off.
This kind of living requires bare feet.
This is holy ground.
