The cat, in the night, sticks her paw under the door and claws at the edge of the wood, waking me from a bad dream, a dream I didn’t want to be dreaming anyway. “Mraw?” she says. Let me in! Aren’t we all like that? Wishing for a little more than we already have, not content with the warm familiar side of the door but curious about what lies on the other side.

I’ve done that. I know I have. Asked a question when I know the answer is going to hurt. Gone someplace fully aware that it isn’t a place for me. Wanted to live a slightly different life. Stuck my paw under that door and clawed at the woodwork. Let me in.

six o’clock in the morning, awoken by small child in wig singing “The hills are alive with the sound of music”…twirling, arms outstretched, in a school uniform which bears a curious similarity to the original Maria’s dress. She plops herself on the edge of my bed and says “Do you love me?” And, oh yes, of course I do. Of course I do. Who could not love this small joy at the beginning of the day? Who could not love being serenaded on a cold and grey morning with “The hills are alive with the sound of music”…the imagination alone is compelling.

…but that is all external. Let me state the obvious. Yes. This child is loved. All my children are loved and wanted.
As one wishes all children were.