Motherly Memories
The flow of what a mother remembers
I sit here on the porch, the sun caressing my aging face. I feel the warmth’s massage, much needed after a lengthened span of blustery winds. I allow my mind to wander back to days of newness and joy. Days of motherly memories.
I think about my firstborn. Coming into this world earlier than predicted, showing signs of internal failings, fighting for a single whiff of air, removed from my sight and placed within a glowing box of tubes and wires. My heart and soul cried out in despair. My instincts exploded in waves of do-or-die. My prayers went out to any who would hear. It was a song that broke my will.
I look ahead more than three decades, dancing past the pieces in between. I smile as I think about my firstborn, now a husband and father, dedicating more than a dozen years to his aquatic command. My heart and soul are filled to capacity. I embrace my instincts and know that it was through them, that I found strength. I give thanks for sparing that tiny child and the life he’s pursued. It is a song that lifts me up.
I think about my youngest. Emerging into this world kicking and screaming, defiance burning in her eyes, destroying any chance of a future challenge to her throne. My heart and soul feared the path this child tended to follow. My instincts repeated lines of past generations. My prayers…
