Marked

There is still, going on fifteen years, a bruise on my lowest rib from where you both, so different now, but both of you, found the perfect and most comfortable spot to wedge your feet. Tucked safely between my liver and my rib cage you wiggled your heels back and forth, marking me as yours.

It is the place that aches now when you are hurting. When you hurl word missiles from your  fourteen-year-old mouth toward my heart they all miss and find a target elsewhere – right there, tucked safely between my liver and my rib cage.

You both, so different now, but both of you, take my breath away. With your strange and wondrous curiosity. With your discoveries. With your pain. Would that I could tuck that away safely too in the place where your feet made room.