I just put on a pair of socks. Thinking that they are mine, they feel small. My five-year-old son, Damien, just went to bed.

Ten minutes ago, I left his room after a particularly difficult bedtime. While snuggling, I thanked him for needing me. I rarely snuggle him in bed these days. My hands are usually full and holding his baby brother, who was asleep nearby. “No problem, Mom” Damien replied.

I am wearing his socks. My five-year old’s socks, barely cover my cold feet, and I am grateful for them.

There will be a day when his socks engulf my feet. When his laundry and mine are rarely mixed up.

I’ll still be sitting in bed, reading Margaret Renkl, thinking and anticipating my children’s needs.

These days I await a cry from a bad dream or the fuss from wet sheets. Someday I will wait for headlights on the driveway or keys in the backdoor, announcing that he is home for the night safely. Safe, holy, and wholly loved.

For now, a pair of little socks wrap around my feet. For now, I’ll silence the phantom cries that ring in my ears and enjoy the silence of no cars coming up the driveway.

For now, I will take comfort in three sleeping babies three open doorways away. For now, I am needed, and I am grateful.

This is the stage of my late migration. It is a slow-moving, paso-a-paso journey. It is the knowledge of good and evil, of great joy and deep sorrow.

My engagement in this migration is necessary, part of an infinite game. It is an act of being broken and becoming whole infinitely. This is my commitment to life.

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