A Prayer For Remembrance
Let me not waste myself hoping that time won't pass by so quickly. Instead, help me to slow down in the coursing by of it. Let me grasp these moments-becoming-memories; tuck them clear and vivid in the pockets of my mind. Give me eyes that linger, a soul that savors, hands that truly feel. Let me not forget when he was this way, small and fragile. He'll never be that way again and I want to always remember the miracle that was him at the dawn of his life.
The silken hairs rippling across his softly wrinkled skin; how it moved like tall wheat in late summer when his stretching limbs waved about.
The furrowing of his newborn brow those first days, as if he was trying to understand, all at once, the strange world he'd been pushed into.
His hair, oh his hair! Dark and rich and full. Raven black and shimmering boldly on the crown of his head. A crown yes, for he was my tiny prince.
The grasping palms, the way his feet curved inwards; how his entire body curled up.
That position was all he'd known for nine months. My heart saddened at realizing that each day he seemed to slowly forget his womb-posture as he grew. Give me the gift of remembrance lest I too forget. Help me to always recall this time. The birthing of my son, the birthing of the Mama-me. And how since then, we've grown into whole new creatures, he and I.
For one day coming too soon, he'll be grown and I'll be old. Perhaps his heart will belong to another woman then, his eyes brimming love for her. Maybe then, like his father all those years ago, he'll have a child of his own resting in the crook of his strong arm. And then, in those days, I'll wisp back my graying hair, I'll speak through aged-lined skin and pastel eyes. I'll smile quietly and I tell my family the stories and tales of when my firstborn was small, I was tired and how wonder-filled and exhaustingly beautiful those beginning days were.
So, with all the yearning of a young mother who can feel time dancing on like some spring wind in trees; it's shifting, and shaping and seeping through. I pray to remember when and always hold this time in the dearest parts of my heart.
Breanne Rodgers, The Village Journalist