Woah, lady

She plays Lady Gaga videos for the older boy, though Gavin is dancing as well.  “Who is that lady with the orange hair?” he asks.

“The same lady as before.  But with different hair.”

“She’s weird,” he says, then stands up to concentrate on his dance moves.

You are all dancing now.  The boy in the swivel chair, who minutes ago addressed the table as though this were a board meeting, is singing along, and you wish someone had footage of this.  Of this joy.  Bedhead, and tragic crepes, and blackberries muddled with mango, and two small boys singing to the slinky tracks.

You have been saying for years that love is like this.  Daily and absurd. No one can fabricate any of these moments.

If there were a fire, she’d written, I’d save your last letter, and let my shoes burn.  Impressive.

You want to tell her that words are the least of it.  But they’re all you have.  And how you save.