....notes on the endpapers:him, in her eyes...

 Henri's on the field.
A flash of purple and red, low to the ground, navigating through the throng of grey-the TOPSoccer volunteers who inevitably huddle together. 

I watch.
Tracking red-cleat-shod-feet slamming into the ground in rapid succession...pushing back against gravity...taking flight.
I watch him from the sidelines, at the work of childhood.  At the work of play.  I ran alongside him earlier...early to the field...time enough to dribble and play...to chase and cheer.  I watch him play.  What a wonder that is.  It comes so naturally to him...the playing...the freedom...
I feel his eyes on me and look up from my notepad.  A moment of checking in.
"Did you see me?"

Oh, yes.  Yes, I see you.

He's quick on his feet, here on this field with his ball...and shooting across the wide expanse.  This boy, with his physical difference...with his trippy feet...with all the trappings of dis-ability...transforms on the field. Smooth and fluid and graceful.  Aligned.  His forward motion locked on the goal.
Not a single doubt in his head. Not a worry.  Not a fear.  Not a question of his worth or his right to take up space.  Not an ounce of shame.  Just a boy, and a ball, and a game.  A perfect practice.

A boy.  This boy.
Secure in his childhood.
Safe, because his Mami is here.
Whole, because he is wholly loved.
Brave, because he's defended and protected and cherished.
Bold, because he's always been allowed to push back...to re-define...to grow in his own time.
I watch him, with her beside me.  The little me who never had that...never was that.
I watch him, holding her close.
"We have it now."

I watch him and we glow.  My motherhood glows. The healing work. The breaking of cycles.  The immense beauty of building something altogether new.

He is, as his brother is, a boy who knows how to hug.  Who has been raised to know how to hug.  How to give them.  How to receive them.  He knows how to laugh until his face cracks open.  How to cry.  How to ask for help.  How to release.  How to recover.  He is safe to be every singular part of himself.  Always.

I watch him on the field.  I watch myself...this future self...watching him on the field, and smile through the tears.  Because we are here together...she and I.  We are healing ourselves by being for him...for them...what we so desperately needed.

I watch him on the field, and I write.  In ink-scrawled sentences across the lines.

He runs and kicks and flings himself entirely into the game.  He plays.

And I think...maybe...just maybe...he can teach me how to play, too.