The Way They Run to Her

It’s not a question,
just instinct.
A scraped knee,
a bad dream,
the kind of ache
they can’t name yet.

They run to her
like rivers find the sea.
Like they always knew the way.

She doesn’t brace.
Just opens
arms, voice,
that face that says
I’ve got you.

There’s magic in it.
Not the wand-waving kind,
but the kind that knows
which night light to leave on,
how to mend what can’t be seen,
how to be
every kind of strong
without ever raising her voice.

I watch them fold into her,
safe and certain.

And I think,
this is how I learned
what love looks like.

Ryan Stone