Still

My daughter is asleep. My son is with his father in town at the traveling carnival bonding over rides of dizzying speed and heights and flashing lights. I have the patio door open and up until just moments ago, the robins, sparrows, finches…they were all singing until the sun finally snuffed out. Not even a breeze disturbs the buffalo grass, already knee-high, in the fields. The neighbor’s cattle are bawling a half-mile away but they sound like they are in my yard. I can smell the perfume of lilacs that I cannot see.

It is quiet and still.

A question was asked, “When did you first know what love is?” and I thought about it. Was it with the birth of my son, and my love for him that came solely out of nurturing? Was it the love for my husband when he rocked his first-born son to sleep, gazed upon his tiny form and marveled? Did I know what love was when he held my hands and wiped my tears and told me that someday, when all was perfect, I would have another baby? Was it love when I let a tear drop onto the sleeping form of my almost-three-year old tonight because she calls me mommy?

It is quiet and still.

And still, my heart feels a little broken. Maybe it is too full.