Son Jordan takes my guitar to the porch. He is writing new… songs waiting in him to find life, chords and words rising in the morning heat.
Here is legacy blooming somewhere between genetics and example. He has become a writer as I am… something of me lives on in him. A gift passed for which I am deeply thankful.
“Sit here,“ he says, “and I will play my newest songs for you.”
A voice raw, broken, beautiful in its imperfections. I move easy in the wicker rocker beside him, catching the repeated choruses, offering soft harmony. Music drifts over the waiting green hills behind my home.
This is my recreated son with stories to tell… who sees beauty often missed. I feel his stillness under the bluster he frequently carries on the outside. His heart beats against the guitar- kind, gentle, truest self.
This is wonder, the stuff of love and hope resurrected. Pure gift, worthy of deepest gratefulness.
My porch becomes a sanctuary.