It is a beautiful dance between them. I watch quietly and closely, willing my eyes not to blink in case I may miss a second of this magical moment. I feel my fears and anxieties melt into a shallow puddle beneath my bare feet, as superman looks deep into monchichi’s eyes and patiently waits for his big brother to look back. They have a language of their own, my sons, these giant souls in preschool bodies. Unlikely friends in the real world, brought together by DNA, they do what comes naturally to them; hug and play, cry and fight. I witness their sibling drama daily, holding myself back from choreographing each encounter until I am pleased with the results. It is their dance, not mine, I remind myself.

Andrew smiles at Ian, nodding with so much enthusiasm I begin worrying now about his neck. It is a full sentence in this house, his nod. They have completed a perfect exchange of communication, and something electric passes through me. Years of training and therapy come together in a split-second. I feel a little less depleted; a little more hopeful. My mind rests, forgetting for now about the long list of Can’ts and Won’ts and Why’s.

This is my deep breath. This is what my mind and body craves as I wake each morning and struggle to make peace with a reality that can sometimes feel so unreal. I am stern with myself. It has been four years! You are not an amateur! Get it together!

But the heart hopes as the mind struggles to accept. And it is these exchanges, among two brothers, that makes this seem like such a misunderstanding. Look at him! He is nodding! He is smiling at his brother! They are making decisions! They are speaking a language! This counts!

So for now, only tiny glimpses into the potential future are allowed. Anything else would be disastrous. Anything else would poison what is happening now. Today. A perfect exchange of communication.

A miracle.

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