If it weren't for his orange cleats forcing my eyes to a single point, I wouldn't be able to process the emotions that flood over me at seeing my son.
In this moment, he is in his world. And it's like nothing else - no one can know the words he is saying to himself, the commands, the encouragement, the hope and belief, and the need to burst through.
I would give anything to be beside him here, asking, "What do you need to do now? How do you know what it is? Is it instinct, understanding? What does it feel like to be you?"
The curls of his brown hair, so much lighter than mine, his forehead, square like my father's, the smooth darkness of his brows against his thick lashes, I see his cheeks - the way they broaden below his eyes and the lines I know so well. His face is one I could draw without ever seeing another picture of him again. I see it now as I type this, along with what you can't see here - the flicker of gold in his hazel eyes.
I look at him in motion and my heart aches with gratitude, it's too much to hold. There isn't enough room for it and it catches in my throat.
I have been staring at this photo for much of the morning, and every time I look at it I want to laugh out loud from the beauty. I want to hold it up with my arms open wide and show it to the sky.
In my life, I have faced loss that has gutted me - my mother, my father, my nephew, my abuela, my friend in college.
But having this here, this photo of a moment so full of the energy of life that you feel the rush of the spring chill against your own skin, makes this picture that much more valuable.
It is here where life is lived, when we feel possibility, a chance at the unpredictable. It is a reminder of what we live for: to embrace and thrill into the discovery of who we are.
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