In Spring Breezes

 I'm seated on my gray-cushioned outdoor loveseat. It's the first day of April, one made for fools like me and these three monkeys I call my baby boys. There is a steady breeze in the air. Green tree leaves swish and swash under the hum of the parkway behind the house. The cloud coverage indicates a storm is brewing. And so it seems, as we enter the "cruelest month", a storm is always brewing in our heart of hearts. It's a deep crevice buried inside, where love overflows but is trapped. 

 The boys are playing with foam swords and soccer balls, racing up and down the playscape slide. They are free to feel and roam and laugh. A dog barks nearby; a train rumbles in the distance. In Spring breezes, the boys continue to frolic and trample across the already trampled grass. They roar with thunderous energy. Their voices and cries are inherent parts of their being. "Look mama, a garbage truck," exclaims the youngest. In his charade of existence, in this backyard, they are learning. They are growing. They are discovering what it means to live and experience joy, hurt, pain. The oldest sniffles and the middle one lets out a hearty sneeze. Seasonal allergies, breathlessness, the heaviness of Spring doesn't cross their naive minds, but they suffer the consequences anyway.  "You're on my team" I overhear one say. I've lost track of the time, engrossed in the swift shifting weather. Thunderstorms are on the radar. It's Spring in Texas.

 The railing on the porch rattles, knocked by a soccer ball. Hat backwards, the oldest shuffles a silly dance much to the amusement of the other two. These are the objects of my life right now: muddy rocks, unevenly snapped sticks, half-deflated balls, plastic sand toys and a broken telescope. These boys test my level of sanity and bring my patience to new levels on a daily basis. And why shouldn't they? They are finding out, through me, just how much they can get away with in this world. But as we know, the world is cruel and nasty. The world tells the little children they are not important, they are inferior. The world is not as patient and protective and loving as Mom. As the Spring breezes slightly slow, maybe even settle, this is where my mind goes to first: the world we live in. What happened to the world I knew as a child? I don't recognize it. 

 The soccer ball hits me on the top of the head...twice. The first time it bounces off my head, then rebounds off the stucco wall behind me. If this were a basketball game...I'd be the hoop.

 "Oh, spirit of the great faith..." I overhear out of nowhere. Kids never stop being interesting, even in this world of uninterrupted media sensationalism. Even in this world where the news just never seems very interesting anymore. It only seems sad and with pursuit to shock, yet only achieves the former to me. In Spring breezes, the boys wander through their fantasy lands. They achieve their goals. They capture and imprison the bad guys. They make good things happen through the games they invent. They pretend to be in Mexico and Antarctica and Austin. The place toys on their heads and crack up talking about zombies. I have no idea what is going on in the yard, but they are all on the same page somehow. The language of young boys is so lost on me sometimes. How can they care so much about these strange and remote concepts?

 I wait for them to want to go inside, to leave the breezy morning air. I know it will take some prodding on my part because outside is where they feel most themselves a lot of the day. The crave nature and space the Earth provides us.  It's out here they can wrestle dragons and cook up the crooks of their imaginary worlds. When they're grown, I don't know what will become of our yard, this space they use every day. When they face this hard world, I do hope the memories of today will come easy.