Worn paint brushes and strewn gloves, tattered library books and metal cars.
These are the things that fill our home from cool hardwood floor to too-high-to-dust ceiling.
We emptied ourselves of schedules and homework and reminders on this No School day, and filled up instead with friends and dancing and layers of messes.
And we are, indeed, full.
I slice celery at the counter. Knife thuds provide the beat to my girlfriend’s lilts.
Our words come quickly, weaving around and through and (often) over our children’s voices.
Two generations of stories begging to be told, and heard.
We wrap our fingers around steaming mugs and breathe this kind of Full Empty day in.
In frantically searching for my Full, I had all but forgotten that it’s always within fingertip reach.
Homemade chicken soup, messy art projects, a house full of kids, laughing with friends.
I repurpose the chicken soup for dinner.
“Do I have to eat this?”
“Can I have fluffernutter?”
And an eye roll. (That one hurts the most.)
I take in the dark of their eyes and the droop of their cheeks and the perfect purse of their lips, and am struck (ever-so-forcefully) by how soft and small and tired they look.
Shades of babies wisp through my heart as their backs curve into the paint etched wooden chairs.
They’re full, overflowing even, and cut from my cloth, in dire need of filling up in the quiet way.
Darkening and smudging and muting our shoulds, we skip swimming and dance and homework.
We fill the bathtub (extra) full with bubbles and children, and our bedsides (extra) high with books and more books.
And in emptying our night, we gift ourselves another layer of full.