I discovered I loved poetry in a bathroom. A poem was framed on the wall right next to the sink and I found myself giggling and nodding my head at the relatable stream of consciousness. I didn’t know it was poetry at the time. All I knew was that I wanted more. This is new for me and a little vulnerable to share with you, but I hope that it encourages you to reflect, smile and try something new.
Why do they say
“You’re growing like a weed”?
As if you are something to be plucked out
Handled with gloves
Discarded into the compost.
Why not compare growth to a pumpkin,
Tomatoes ripening on the vine,
A sunflower chasing the sun with her golden face?
A bright flash of color
A sweet snack
A reminder of God’s goodness.
I am not afraid of your emotions.
They are wild and unruly like your hair that you refuse to let me brush and with fierce determination tell me you’ll do it yourself. Awkward strokes that leave the snarl only slightly hidden underneath the curtain of smooth locks. A rat's nest that will eventually protrude and flow freely in the wind of your run. The world gets to see your shiny surface but I get to see the jumble underneath. Come sit on my lap and we’ll detangle it together one careful stroke at a time.
6 More Minutes
Dishes are sticky in the sink.
The dog needs to be fed.
My book beckons me to come sit and read.
But I’m right here.
Foreheads touching.
Little hands wrapped around my neck.
Our breath mingles as we lay here face to face.
You ask for 6 more minutes.
1
My head rests back on the rocking chair in the relief of silence, your body finally heavy from sleep in my arms as we rock. Rock. rock.
2
A yogurt explosion on the floor / chair / me / your face and an ant-sized portion in your mouth. With a big grin you bring both hands together for more.
3
With all the force of a tiny sumo wrestler you give a grunt and slowly rise into a standing position. We hold our breath as you bravely put one chunky thigh in front of the other before crashing down again.
4
Your hand rests on my leg as I read and hold you close. One ER visit and 4 staples later, you look like the Karate Kid with a bright blue bandage wrapped around your head.
5
You’ve been focused for an hour. Balancing with one foot, the other lightly touches the pedal as you take a breath and push off for the 100th time but this time you are flying.
6
You walk away, backpack almost the same size as you, laden down with your lunch and some rocks you snuck in when I was not looking. You turn and smile with a little wave that tells me you’re going to be ok.
Oh my boy, what I would give for 6 more minutes with you.