he tells me i have a pretty nose and i blush as though we haven’t been married eight and a half years and i hear Jesus in his voice
and when i swear and yell, so tired of being good, he just holds me, and there is Jesus in his arms
and sometimes Jesus smells like apple pie, all cinnamon and crust and warm, the kind of smell that makes you want to buy a house because it makes you believe you belong
and sometimes he smells like the old man in the grocery store, the one in the sweats and the long beard staring at the rows of bread for too long
and sometimes he smells like the inside of a trailer, one that hasn’t been opened in weeks because the family in it is scared, and
sometimes he smells like baby powder.
he is in the wind that moves my son’s hair as he tosses twigs in the woodpile
he is in the knots in a homeless man’s hands, in the span of a sparrow’s wing and in the tears on my grandfather’s cheek, the tears my grandfather cried thinking of my grandmother’s home-made biscuits. and missing her desperately.
there is no limit to his love and we are lovely because he loves us and he is here. among us.
all of us.
emmanuel.