Beauty

Beauty is in the eye, um "ear" of the beholder.


Vacuuming - done, mopping - done, dishes - almost done, goes my mental checklist. Now, what was I doing? Oh yeah, dishes... amidst the horrible honk of my son "practicing" on his French horn.

This is a crazy time of day, right before dinner preparations, and I am in no mood for noises like a sick moose groaning through the house. After about six more off-noted bleats I march, guns blazing, for my son's room.

I burst in and all I was about to say is wiped out of existence by the sights and sounds that greet me.

There on the floor, since the French horn is half as big as he is, sits my oldest child. Standing near him is my youngest daughter. As soon as he stops to take a breath, since blowing into French horns is difficult work for an eight year-old, a little 15 month old angel, the sun streaming through the window onto her hair turning it into a halo, claps her hands and shouts, "hurray!"

I stay for a few moments, basking in the joy and love in that little room, even joining in a time or two. Then, with a tear in my eye, and a crooked little song in my heart, I slip out to finish my housework and begin dinner. Now, however, I don't mind the concert that rings through his - thank goodness - closed door.