The Leaf
You hold the stem of a leaf between your fingers. It twists and turns, falls to the ground. Your eyebrows furrow, and you reach for it again, two hands this time, and you let it spin up and down your fingers. The smallest of smiles, your eyes sparkle. You see its color — green in its purest form. The veins that stretch from bottom to top, purple in the midday light, ridges under your fingertips. It is spring. The leaf, new and young, fallen too soon, but here in your hands, fulfilling its purpose. Marveling at its beauty, you hold it as you look all around you. The breeze in your tiny hair, your eyes flutter gently, and you take a quick breath in. Time stands still, and still, you hold your leaf.
You stare out of the storm door, watch the cars go by. They whir and they rumble and they go so fast. To me, just a truck, a car, a van. To you, blurs of color, as quickly here as they are gone. The morning is chilly while the sun plays peekaboo between the limbs of trees. Diamonds perch on tops of grass blades, sparkling. Water droplets roll down the glass, bowing to the heat inside. You move from your bottom to your knees, reach your hands for the cold glass. Fingers slip and slide around your new canvas, leaving trails of lines and circles. Chills rise on your arms, but you are an artist, and you have work to do.
You watch as the water fills, holding onto the porcelain edge, warm belly exposed and pressing against the cold tub. Bouncing your body, knees bending and straightening, a squeal lets out. You look back at me. “Are you seeing this, mama?” your eyes seem to say. I laugh, and you squeal even louder. I turn the water off, let my hand submerge pass the bubbles and into the warmth. Just right. I pick you up and you kick your feet. Into the water you go, and suddenly you are calm. Your breathing slows and you hold your hands up high. The bubbles, iridescent as the morning sun streams through the bathroom window. In the cold house, steam rises from the warm water, and you — you see it all. Slowly, you reach your hand over the top of the bubbles, light and tickling your palm. Eyes meet mine, and you smile as you look down. Braver this time, your hand goes into the bubbles, and you pull it out and cackle when they stick to you. Inevitably, your hand goes into your mouth. Your eyebrows come together and your tongue sticks out — disappointed at the taste. I put my hand in fresh water, and swipe your tongue. You are grateful. And then, you do it again.
I stand at the counter next to the stove, chop and toss into a pan. You climb up my legs and beg for attention. “One second, baby,” I say, and you give a little tug to my pants before plopping down next to me, giving up. Your eyes search for something interesting, and there it is. A silver mixing bowl on the bottom open shelf. Crawling towards it, you look back at me to test what I think about the whole thing. “Go ahead,” I chuckle. You grab it awkwardly and pull it towards yourself. Success. Eyes close, nose squinches, a delightful grunt. Fingers run along its edge, pick it up, on your head it goes. Your eyes disappear, and we both laugh. You lift it up quickly and smirk in my direction. Gazing into its almost mirrored sides, reflections morphed by its round shape, you see your own distorted face looking back at you. You tap your fingers on the metal bowl, excited by the tinny sound it makes. The bowl between your knees, you lean onto it, hold its edges, and smile.
Mouth to my breast, we sit in our favorite chair. The house is quiet. The chair knocks rhythmically. Your hand rests on my chest until your eyes catch the light that reflects off of my necklace. The silver shines as we rock, and your hand finds its way to the pendant. You touch it softly, rub your fingers across its smooth surface. Cold to the touch, you move along the line of the strand, coarser now, tiny braided metal. A gentle tug. “Easy,” I whisper, and you move back to the pendant. You continue to suckle and your eyes begin to close. Hand to my heart, my nutrients, now yours, gently, you succumb to sleep.
You fumble and find your way through all of these seemingly ordinary things — ordinary to me, someone who has seen them and passed them and ignored them for years. A bowl is just a bowl; a necklace, a necklace. And suddenly, as my name becomes mother, I am able to see just how amazing they are. You renew my sense of wonder, of value, of awe.
And suddenly, I see you looking at me. I see you looking at me, and I realize that you look at me the same way you look at all the rest. You spy me from across the room, mutter “mama,” and come to me. You look at my feet and you pet them with care. Staring into my eyes, you reach up your arms. When I hold you, you lay your head on my shoulder, pat my arm, and then begin to explore every inch of my face. You stare at me, overwhelmed with adoration and love. Fingers make their way across my cheeks and try to fight their way past my lips and to my teeth. I laugh and pull away. You are doing deliberate work, though, and your face stays collected as you find my ears, then my eyelashes. You take in my every move. You memorize me. I wonder when I became so interesting, so awesome, so worth taking a serious look at. Is it just because I am your mother?
And then I realize, I am, and always have been, the leaf.
Born and raised in a small town in Georgia, KATE BAILEY is a wife and a mother of two girls, Jane and April. She works in the field of personalized learning in secondary Education. Her mission is to find the beauty in the ordinary, wonderful, and difficult moments of parenthood as a way to connect us all and validate each of our journeys.
