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  • Writer's pictureMReid


This is the best part of parenting,

when you are old enough to have your own

thoughts, your own way

that you smirk when you find something

funny, the way you look at me and giggle and wait

for my laugh, because how couldn't I find this life humorous?

This is the best part,

when you are old enough to want

to explore the world around you--

the way you can jump off the couch

and land with a KER-THUMP like Elmo,

smack on the back of the floor lined with your toys,

how you run, fast fast fast, your little legs

pumping the air sideways around your body

you fly, you smile, and you are the sun, and I am

healed by your light as you drift

to me, seeking my shade when you tire.

You shine onto a field, large and green,

as the wind whips in the nascent and waning days

of our brief Spring,

and as you run behind a ball, back and forth,

you are no longer the sun, but a grand show

pony, all knees up and proud trot.

I think about how one year ago your body didn't yet understand

the mechanism of how to run, and a year before that

your arms had just learned they could support your weight,

push you into sitting. The year before that,

you were no more than a bean

floating inside the constellations of my universe,

a little pod with sticks for arms and legs

on the darkness of an ultrasound screen.

And the year before that--

(there is very little that matters to me about my life before you.)

My heart cracks open and pours

onto the field, beneath your light,

blood and sweat and gratitude and fear and joy and pride and

love and love and love,

and love, more love than I've ever felt.

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