Sometimes my magic comes in the dark of the night as I stumble and tuck and soothe and repeat.
I have caught my magic by it’s tail as I pushed someone higher and higher, ignoring the tempting buzz in my pocket that would take me away.
It arrives at times when I’m driving and the last thing in the world I want to do is sing and then I sing loudly and badly.
I have found my magic in the middle of a dirty kitchen when I want to be a 5-year-old again but I pick up that one plate and rinse it off and be the grown-up.
It breathes delicate hope into me as I wait for fevers to go down and eyes to clear.
The sureness of my magic follows me home from the bus stop with sticky fingers linked with mine and eager chatter of beetles and minecraft and monkey bar challenges.
I sometimes have to tackle my magic in an ironic pause as I am hollering at someone to Just Calm Down!
It whispers at me to think when I catch them and I want to scold and it says to me, “You should just let them get away with it.”
My magic bubbles up when I tickle them or put snow down their backs or spin them around until we all want to puke.
It reminds me to believe in gut feelings and intuitions and certain looks in their eyes.
It brandishes swords when it needs to.
It breaks me open with a heartbroken hiccup when she couldn’t find me in the store.
It scares me with it’s power sometimes because it feels too big and alive and I can’t be this person to them because I don’t know how!
And then it burrows under the covers on a Saturday morning with us and ignores our stinky breath and I know how again.
My magic guides me to be a person that I didn’t even know I was until it met their magic.
And I wonder if I believe in it or if it believes in me.
This post was originally featured on Mamalode.