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100 Words on Love by Mark Greene
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Love is this moment when my son puts his hand on my arm. When he settles in against me, standing by my chair at the table, the two of us drawing. His touch arrives without fanfare. Like breathing.
All my fears drop away. Time stops.
His touch is unconscious. He’s absorbed in watching me draw. I thank god I never struck him. Or put the fear of my temper in him. We draw pictures, picking brightly colored pencils, this one and that. I put my arm around him. Millions of stars are born, flare and die out somewhere.
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