Is That Enough?

by Katie Blackburn

The evidence of my children and their curious nature is all around me: the open drawers, the spilled contents of a bucket, the drawings covering the table and the marker caps that were never replaced lying around the floor. And of course, the questions. I sit at my kitchen table and stare at all of it—the evidence—knowing I need to move, I need to pick things up, I need to find some order in this house, in this place I’m in.

My son walks into the room, all six years of him, in the sweetest of seasons between baby fat and little boy muscles, between innocence and awareness. He’s the little boy who came into the world with a heart seemingly tattooed on his sleeve, and he’s not self-conscious enough yet to cover it up. I love that about him. “I miss Dad,” he tells me, and I know he does. His dad is everything fun, everything dependable, everything happy to him. He walks over to my seat at the table and puts his head on my shoulder to catch the tears. “How long will he be gone?” he asks. 

I rub his head and let my sweatshirt dry his eyes.