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It is quiet now like inside a child’s dream with snow.
My two boys are sprawled out under a moon on the last day—make that night—of spring, in two tents, side by side, too small in the descending scheme of darkness, too likely for a middle-of-the-night pee just to see if Daddy and Mommy are still there, through that door, in the walls of home.
It had started when Taylor, who somehow found a scheme to wring three birthdays out of July 7 and, weeks before the official day marking his ninth year on the planet, wanted to put up the tent that Grandma had already given him. Taylor, born with the genes of a capitalist under fire, was determined that his brother Ethan would never sleep in his tent, no way, not ever, or I’ll never play with him again, not ever, not tomorrow, not the next day, or the day after that, never, ever. We got the idea. In one of those classical parenting moments designed more from exhaustion than true, sacrificial, life giving love, I decided to put our tent up for Ethan, then explain to Taylor--for the third time that day--why grace is higher than law.
Along a fence bordered with blooming Columbine, the night fell on them with a strength that could only leave them giggling in a gentle fear, which they did until well past midnight. For the first time, they were sleeping in pup tents under a star-filled sky. Mommy had read to them by flashlight, and I could hear their voices, muffled like sunlight falling on the moon. After Mommy had said goodnight, they were forced to ask a million questions, each more outrageous than the other, because they eventually knew the answer would finally be darkness, solitude.
They would be alone together.
When the wind stilled and a crescent moon cut silver into that first summer night, we could hear their voices, framed with uneasy giggles, bouncing their fears back and forth, Taylor to Ethan and Ethan to Taylor, pup tent to pup tent to pup tent, like fumbled prayers in the service of a goddess who went out of business ages ago. Underneath a canopy of whispers and insects, the night was soft and heavy, falling, blanketing completely our two small boys. Their voices were fainter, less often, and then, against a black and silver speckled sky, silence settled.
My wife and I listened to that silence, stayed in it for a moment or two, and then ourselves fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.
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