I want to remember this:
You, after a bath, still slick with water,
Dripping tendrils of baby curls sticking to your neck,
Bolting down the hallway,
Naked and confident,
Shoulder blades protruding like wings-
Bird bones just under the surface.
Screaming with glee.
Febrile and defiant.
I want to remember this:
You, sleeping soundly in our bed,
As only you can
When you are in your parents’ bed
At age two.
Sunken deep into a pillow, assured and secure,
Your breath paced slow and steady,
Your lower lip jutting and relaxed.
Your lashes grazing that tender patch of bluish skin
Just below the eye.
Damp curls lay flat against your pulsing temple.
Your tiny hand, open-palmed and fleshy,
Managing to reach out to me,
Still asleep.
I want to remember this:
You, coming to join me in the morning,
Messy, gorgeous, matted hair
Hiding still-sleepy eyes,
Cheeks rosy and creased from slumber,
Diaper fat and sagging,
Your little voice, cracking,
proclaiming something,
Anything,
As though it were a new-found discovery:
“Look, Mama! A book!”
I want to remember this:
You, delighting in those things otherwise overlooked.
A bubble escaping from the dish soap bottle.
The ant jarred awake by the year’s first thaw.
The way the cat washes its ears.
I want to remember this:
You, looking at me with complete and total trust.
Believing that I know.
Seeing me as I have forgotten how to see myself.
I want to remember this.
