Last night I tangled with a bike in the driveway and banged myself up pretty badly. My knee is feeling somewhat better, but my hips, ankles, shoulder, and back all ache from trying to hobble around without putting weight on my knee. When one part suffers, the whole body feels it, and it's not easy on the rest of the family when I'm incapacitated like this. Andrew was going to go study tonight, but since I need to stay off my feet, he set up a cozy nest for me in the garden cart, brewed me some tea, and we're sitting together in the gentle evening breeze. The kids are running around playing some variant of cops and robbers as he studies and I write. The pressing ache in my chest means that it's time for another poem. I don't know where this one's going, but I'm excited. Occasionally the kids pause their game to tell us what they're doing or to ask about our progress. It's the kind of moment that makes all the other moments worthwhile, and all in all, I'm glad.

Johnny brought me some paper and a broken crayon (Strawberry Red).

"Wrap."

So I wrapped it up (again), hoping that this time he would forget about the tape.

He didn't.

"Tape."

So I taped it up (again), gave it to him, and he danced, beaming like Chesterton's sun.

"Present!"

Then he opened his gift, marveled at the shard of pink-red wax, and asked me to wrap it again.

Because that is what crayons, pens, and paper are for: unwrapping wonder and making it new, again and again and again.