They are 16, spread out on the couch:
her head resting on his hip,
his legs curled beneath her back,
in brother-sister unconsciousness.
Their faces are open, turned toward the TV
to laugh or groan at what they see.
I watch them.

 They don’t often sit close like this,
these two who are teenagers turning into
almost-adults before my eyes.  And I can’t
help it, I can’t help it at all that my mind flashes back

to the first time, the beginning, when I saw them together
like this, on the grainy black and white screen,
their tiny bodies tucked into each other,
curled yin and yang together
inside me.  I didn’t know then what
I know now…  there were only
 fluid screen ghosts and what I felt inside,
kicks and rolls like sea waves.

I didn’t know they would grow
to be these two dazzling people
stretched out on the couch in front of me,
funny, wise, light-filled creatures who are
almost ready to climb.

I watch them but I say nothing.  I know
it would spoil the moment, rolling their eyes.
They would sit up and move
away because Mom is so weird about
this kind of thing.  So I pretend to watch TV while
I sit and watch them quietly, resolving,
knowing that I will keep
this moment.

                                                         –Theresa Jarosz Alberti, 2007