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  • Ritual.
  • Micah Whitson

Ritual.


These days, they are long. Starting before the alarm clock, he stirs. She knocks on the door. The two of them, just six years of life combined, start our day. We make breakfast. We strategize about the day, together. He grunts. She sings. We exit scene, ungracefully at times, but into the day we waltz. I reenter scene from below. Up the basement steps after hanging up my bike. The end of the work day but the start of three more golden, tiring hours. He toddles. She skips. We build forts. We fall on the ground, in a pile, sometimes of laughs, sometimes of tears. We eat. Wash. Brush. Read. Pray. Hug. Kiss. G'night. These days, they are short. 
  • Micah Whitson