By Cat MacDiarmid

I'm rocking to the rhythm of the rain with Noah on my lap,
His head nodding with each to and fro,
His eyelids drooping, lashes casting spiky shadows on his cheeks.
He looks toward the window at the stained glass apple hanging there.
"See that?" he asks and points a stubby finger in the air.
"Yes, I see that," I answer.
He asks that question, and I answer that answer every day.
His toys trail across the floor, testimony to this tiny tornado,
Ending at his scuffed, blue sneakers with the Velcro straps on top.
They are a most treasured possession, his ticket to outside.
His short legs dangle over my knee, and I can't believe how fast he has gotten here.
I'd like to stop time, or to reverse it, and relive the last two years at a slower pace.
He lifts his hands.
They almost open and almost close several times.
They turn quarter turns, back and forth, in a dancing ritual I know heralds his surrender.
His hands still, and his body grows heavy and limp.
His encrusted tee shirt tells the tale of breakfast, lunch, and snacks.
With my fingernail, I remove a raisin from the cowboy on his pocket.
I whisper to him about all the places he will go,
And the man that he will be,
And all the things that he will see.
"See that," I say.

Comments are closed 2 months after a piece is published.