Rock, Paper, Scissors, Death

Rock me to sleep. Listen to my cries. Stroke my forehead until they ease into soft whimpers and then quiet slumber. Set me in the basinet and then wonder, who will she be? When will she talk? Walk? Dance? Thrive?

Hand me paper. Teach me to write. Watch my thoughts appear in black and white and then question, from where did that come? What else resides under those blonde ringlets concealed behind gray-green eyes?

Hide the scissors. Put them up high. Protect me from myself, my clumsiness, my tendency to dwell in my head. Give me shelter, comfort, warmth and then worry, how will she survive in a rough and tumble world? Who will keep our dreamer out of the clouds and guard her from harm?

Witness the slow death of childhood. Feel the bittersweet tears run down your cheeks when you think I’m not looking. Marvel at the lightning fast turning of the clock and ask, why didn’t anyone tell us the final curtain would fall so soon? Understand that the innocent time must end. Bury it carefully in a time capsule filled to the brim with golden memories she visits again and again as she rocks herself to sleep.
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This post was inspired by the Inspiration Monday prompt over at Be Kind Rewrite.  

28 thoughts on “Rock, Paper, Scissors, Death

  1. As a mother of two grown children I can so relate to this post. Mine are in their twenties but I still look at them with rapt wonder. I can’t imagine my life without them. I ache to see their future, but still wish for their past. When they were small and I could carry them with me everywhere. Somehow I still do carry them with me though. Even though they’re grown. Thanks for your words honey. Thanks.

  2. This is so full of emotion, so many ways.
    The fears and nurturing of parents, the realisation that nothing is for ever, except the futures we will not be a part of.
    The handing on of the baton to the next generation, with our love, our blessing, our best wishes, our hopes.
    And our prayers that we have done a good enough job to get them safe and happy to the far end.
    As we watch out for our own.

  3. My son turned six recently. It is still unfathomable that my baby is not a baby. I send him e-mails to share with him when he turns 18. I will be sending him this. What perfect words to express the journey I am on as a mother. Thank you!

  4. Pingback: Inspiration Monday: the pursuit of happiness « BeKindRewrite

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