I used to know MAGIC.  The unseen wonder that occasionally, albeit rarely, slipped into the peripheral space beyond the senses; the same space which holds love at first sight, gut reactions, grief, deja vu.  Magic to me encompassed all of the above and the surest faith that these transient moments were the mere tip of the magic iceberg.

Lately, I tend to rely on dark chocolate, and though it is not to be slighted, it's flavor does not linger nor offer hope.  

The magic I miss had a timeless nature, which accompanied those shifts where reality showed it's edges, around which a hush of pink sang a lyric of more.  A more which was infinite and good and Now.  Never other, magic, when it appeared was simultaneously within and without.  Never the puppet master, rather it held the suggestion of an everlasting, "everything is, has been, and everything will be OK".  I hold a handful of these moments as sure and real as a polaroid, yet yellowed and with curling edges from being tucked away in a box.  I feel some shame that my spirit is the box.

I am the fortunate parent to two mystical boy creatures; talented, beautiful, funny, and so much more than I ever would have hoped or thought to dream up.  They bring me up so close to magic's windows, the view can be cloudy with fingerprints and moistened by tears.  Be it the forced habit of the younger claiming my arm as his own, propping himself against me while we read, or his still certain refrain of I love you voiced as often as he sees me no matter how frequent, an echo of pure absent-minded heartsong.  My recent teen, the elder, makes me work harder as he has little use for me of late.  I know nothing of sports stats, cannot tell a B flat for an E major, and I have the unfortunate role as the mother who believes he should get more than 6 hours of sleep.  Homework of which he has piles, leaves him exhausted but none less committed to the over- zealous nature of marching bands; add in hormones and well he can be a hard nut to crack. Still, likely because he is too tired to remember his restraint, occasionally he forgets and starts a story about a new song, and next sharing a riff he has learned from playing his bass after school, and before he realizes he is enchanting me, he is humbly boasting under his hair in his eyes, baseball hat hidden glory of the friends he has made playing the music he loves and is ridiculously good at.  I sneak in a hug, which he allows for five seconds longer than the usual one, and I see he is well.

Writing reminds me I still know magic.  I still am lifted by the wonder of grace and serendipity.  Maybe the older glimpses of stopped hearts and awe-inspiring sensations of the world standing still were simply the product of a life with room for the profound.  Life today is busier, but still full of wonders beyond reason. Whether it whirr or whimsy, rhythm or melody, fussing or fuming, bass or tuba, each day has a plenitude of polaroids which will serve me in the future when I have misplaced the magic of that moment. 

And dark chocolate has a certain value in a home full of precocious teenagers.

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