blessings

"You've given me everything God. Everything except the kids."
It was dawn at the chateau. I was greeting the creator of the universe as I normally do when I wake.
That is to say with a little emotional blackmail.
Later that day a passle of nephews arrived for niece Erin's first birthday.
With cries of "Uncle James, Uncle James," they proceeded to run me ragged around the garden.
This went on for hours.
At one point when I felt on the verge of cardiac arrest I seemed to become aware of holy God watching and laughing at the good of it.
I might have heard him say: "There you go. More kids than you know what to do with."
Much later, alone again at last, I found some of my cherished CDs scattered around the sitting room, out of their cases and covered in muddy fingerprints.
Gingerly I picked them up.
One by one.
The irreplaceable Pino Daniele collection Bia sent me.
The Berlin Philharmonic's version of the Bolero.
The Pavane. Sweet mercy. The Pavane.
I placed them back on the shelves.
From somewhere not too far away, the centre of the universe maybe, I heard:
"Be careful what you wish for..."