I wonder how more love happens. Somehow I don’t have to squeeze each one into an already full heart – they suddenly occupy a huge chunk of it with no one else kicked out.
Flash. My guy and I walk the city of San Francisco with our son and two of his boys, 3 and 1 ½. We watch the ice skaters in the middle of Union Square, eat vendor pretzels, pant up hills (with the boys sharing a stroller), listen to the opera singer standing in the alley, and then somehow end up in a men’s clothing store, one that my man has bought clothes from since our son was his sons’ age.
As we finger the cotton shirts and silk ties, the two shop owners, now in their 60s, exclaim, “three generations of one family!’ and I feel a burst of pride. I don’t why. I haven’t done anything.
The 3-year-old just sits on the floor looking up at the four men talking about important topics, like football and the stock market.
Suddenly, out of the blue, he touches my guy’s leg. “PaPa,” he says. The men don’t hear him. My little grandson waits patiently.
“PaPa,” he says again, not any louder.
PaPa stops talking and looks down at his grandson.
“PaPa,” our little grandboy continues as if in the middle of his quiet bedroom. “I love you.”
The busy clothier store grows quiet…
My heart bursts open wider, to let in even more love.