Even now, he sleeps.
It’s majesty and mystery and smoke and fire, being a mother. He’s bounding out the door, and back in again. Then out once more.
I can feel summer coming.
In those long lazy days I would hold him in my arms. We’d swing together, feet patting the ground, rocking back and forth. We’d hold tight. But already I can feel the tautness of his wings, the turning of the doorknob.
They always said it would be hard.
But they never told me how the weight of him against my chest would melt into the weight of the years, how my body would feel like my earliest memories of my own mother: a soft warm comfort wrapped up in need and longing. How nothing would satisfy with a love this big.
Happy Mother’s Day, for my mother, for yours, for the ones you’ve lost, the one you never had, and the one you want to be.