cheering them on
When the boy with the beautiful voice started singing, I wanted
to cry. Then, on the video reel, his brother - an early gymnast -
made a spectacular dismount from the high bars, and I felt my heart
lift and flutter as if these were my own kids, which they weren't.
It was hard, a little, not to gush. Hard not to think about home and the daily
bobble with algebra, or the undistinguished soccer season, or the grinds
we go through just to get a single book read. I admit, I sat there shaky
and confused, craving an unnameable excellence when, of course, it shines
when I least expect it. A hug, a dance move, how they ask for help so skillfully,
without a trace of resistance, and with a smile just for me.