There’s no vocabulary for love within a family
Love that’s lived in, but not looked at
Love within the light of which all else is seen,
The love within which all other love finds speech,
This love is silent.
I’m in New Hampshire (on the Lost island, I joke, for the complete lack of cell service for miles and miles around) with my extended family. Eight children, six adults, skiing, white wine, casseroles, sledding, and lots and lots of laughter. These women are my anchor and my wings; their lives throb alongside mine with a reassuring regularity and their families are interwoven with mine. They are the other two legs of the stool and for that I will be eternally grateful.