Leonine night

Tonight, as Mighty Lev fights his way through another cold, I’m visited by the memory of my mother’s eucalyptus fingers, stained and weary and bleeding through work and winter–but never not soft with salve for my beating heart–and her, raven-haired in the little boy’s night light, singing above the ragged rise and fall of her sick son’s chest.

If you’re out there, your work is not done. There are a couple of boys in the rain and roar of this leonine night who could use the quiet of your touch.