The Slow-Cooked Sentence

In which the author ruminates about love

Rachael Conlin Levy
A giving tree.

Have you noticed when a tree is loved by children? The evidence is in the bark, once shaggy, rough and prone to tearing pants and splintering skin has worn away. A round spot marks the place where feet shimmy up the trunk and favorite branches are burnished until they gleam.


My body is loved by my small son, who falls asleep cradled in my arms only after his hand secrets its way to the mole on my breast. He covers the tiny bump of skin and closes his eyes, his breath joining the quiet rhythm of my heart under his hand.

A work in progress.

A heart, my heart, aches a little as my daughter slips out of my world and into a world of her own. Afternoons once spent in the swing or in the kitchen as I made dinner, have been replaced with time in her room. Alone. With tea. A book. And a poster of the hunky, werewolf boy from the Twilight series.

2 responses to “In which the author ruminates about love”

  1. boatx2 says:

    how heart-breaking and lovely all at the same time.

  2. Rachael Levy says:

    Thank you. It's hard to let go, but I know it has to happen.

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