Sometimes I can’t see it.
I really don’t know what it looks like.
But I yearn for it.
And then I am given a peek.
A glimpse of the eight year old little boy who was born on the same day in the same year as mine.
The one who is not my son.
The things that he can do that my child can’t.
The little boy who was brought forth from his mother’s womb .
And I see.
Yes, I see all the things that he can do with such ease.
And then there are the words that spring forth from that little boy’s mouth…
With ease, grace, and speed.
They fill the room.
Woven together tightly into sentences.
Creating ideas. Expressing anger. Sharing fears.
But this child is not mine.
The child who is typical by definition of the world around us.
And I yearn for that little one.
To hold his hand.
To feel what it would be like.
To have him next to me eating at a restaurant.
Smiling. Laughing. Coloring.
To drop him off at a birthday party with a wave and nod.
To watch him kick a goal or score a touchdown.
Yes, sometimes I want the little boy who was born on the same day in the same year as my little one.
Yes, sometimes I want the one who is not mine.
And it is raining outside.
He loves the rain.
He slides his window open.
We gather all of his blankets.
We pull them across the wood floor.
With a giggle, he jumps into his nest.
His elbows and head hitting the mound first, then his knees.
All of the blankets.
The blue one.
The green one.
The white one.
The striped one.
They catch him.
He lifts his head.
“I want pillows!”
It covers me.
I gather his long body pillows.
I drop them one by one on top of his long 70 pound body.
He pushes his nose against the window screen.
Without turning, he calls for the rest of his friends to join him, “I want Mickey, Minnie, and Goofy. Where is Ba Ba and Giraffe?”
I reach down and grab his sacred lovies from the floor.
I step into his nest and he grabs them from me.
He holds them to his chest, and bending down over them, he hugs them tightly.
He looks at me, “Mommy, go sleep.”
I lie next to him.
The smell of my eight year old boy and the warm rain of this September morning become part of his nest too.
He turns from the window.
His blue eyes full of peace.
Full of understanding.
He leans into me.
He grins, “It’s raining.”
I sit up.
I take hold of my sweet boy, along with Mickey, Minnie and Goofy.
I smile, “Yes, it is raining.”
He turns back to the window.
And we sit.
In his nest that cradles us.
And I see it.
The child who was born to me.
Brought forth from my womb.
The one that is mine.
Copyright Cheairs Graves September 6, 2012