I stumble downstairs to kiss the tops of babies heads that smell like cinnamon, wrap their sticky maple syrup fingers in mine, and ask my husband for a cup of coffee I do not drink. He hands me a mug of hot chocolate with a smile.
"How did the writing go, last night?"
His generosity in asking makes me forget that I am not doing this for a living, but rather a starving artist on the side of my well-fed teacher paying job. His attentiveness to my answer is almost as good as a glowing review in The New York Times, almost.
Until, I remember that I hit publish at 2 am on a poem that was a guilty thought about whether or not I provide my children with enough of myself. And, I am suddenly ashamed of my lack of craft.
My husband, who sees everything before I do, moves to disentangle the children, who are at that very moment building a clubhouse between my weary knees. He looks at me with that love that has not diminished over time and the extra 10 pound I am carrying around my middle.
He asks, and I tell him about the near miss poetry that happened in the middle of my night that was actually morning, and how I am ashamed. He suggests I hit delete, not understanding about the rules of GoogleReader.
I try to explain in a voice that verges on panic about how you give your words away when you hit publish, toss them in the air, and hope for some soft landing.
"Read it to me." He is all sincerity.
And I do. I read him that unfinished poem, as we stand in the kitchen, and our children climb our bodies like trees to fill their pockets with our leafy kisses.
When I am done, he moves me closer inside his arms, touches the softness of his lips to the curls on the top of my head and says,
"You have given nothing away but your heart."
He goes back to busying himself with the morning dishes, and I am left there wondering who the real poet in our family is, after all.
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