Last night I carried you from the kitchen to the living room.
You drank your bottle.
Stuck your hand in my shirt to feel my heart beat.
Light.
It's my favorite move.
We sat together so I could hold you for a longer time.
You are heavy.
Starting as an unspoken word you lingered in my womb.
Light.
My hips spread and my body shifted to gather you up.
My feet lengthened as the house was built ever stronger ever larger to accommodate your growth.
The joints hurt.
You became heavy.
Upon arrival - your little tiny existence was awe inspiring.
Light.
I felt as if I was free and could dance around your bassinet as I now did not carry your weight inside.
Then you grew and my body shifts continually to reposition itself around your sleeping form.
Your tantrums have subsided for today.
I worry about you and gently stroke your face as you murmur and threaten to awake.
Your needs have become heavy.
I imagine that you will continue.
Need more. Want more.
Emotionally fraught with the perils of your years as a woman on a journey through the fog.
Light.
Only as a far off dream.
I can only guide your growth based on my own experiences.
Your heart will be full and heavy.
Until one day you look at me as I discover I am leaving.
Having nothing left to give you.
Sage wisdom of regret and heartache.
Old and frail. You will carry me.
Then my ashes.
Light.
Never to be heavy again.
