KEIRA LYNN DODD

Ellie 1/23/2011

 

She isn’t aware that I’m watching.

She bounces and chatters

words that aren’t words,

a language I’ve lost through logic.

Her face is unconsciously alive

with whatever is animating her

inside—whether tempestuous

or ticklish—just watching her

tires me out. 

 

She pauses mid-gush and bounds

over to me.  A real sentence

follows the kiss she plants on my cheek:

“I like you, Mommy.”

She nods her head, agreeing internally

with her statement.  Her eye-lids

blink coyly, or what would be called coy

in a female ten times her age. 

She is a pitcher I fill each day

 

and every day she overflows

into me and around me and through me

and some days I notice and some days

I’m drowning in whatever else

the day has poured into my jug

and I’m full and tired and heavy

and just want to empty out

into nothing and disappear,

but she is watching me

 

present and expectant,

and I can’t disappoint.

I can’t disappear.  She wants me

here, so she does all she can to keep me

in awe of her, of her little body,

still stretching itself and practicing

how to be, and of her very large self—

feisty and dramatic and so very

her, a narrative being written

 

before my eyes, complete with

musical accompaniment,

strings and woodwinds, a whole

brass band in the background,

and while silence used to be nice,

I am addicted to this new little life,

something I mysteriously helped to create,

a being who used to keep me awake

with her kicks and with worry,

 

and now here she is, and she is going by

in a blur.  I try to pause my life

enough to see her, really see her. 

I secure tiny moments on film,

I dream about her to capture her

somewhere inside, a place that won’t

degrade or fade, but all that pales

in comparison to now because

here she is, right in front of me

 

and this moment will never be again,
and when I realize that, I feel an enormous

cavern inside my chest that opens

to take in what it can and to hold what it will.

I open my eyes, both inside and out,

to what I can see, and I hold out my hand

and stroke her cheek, willing myself

to feel her, and I wonder if she realizes

what I’m doing, if she’ll think I’m

 

crazy or weird, but in a way, she’s

doing it, too.  In the morning

she climbs into my bed and clutches me

so tightly, and reaches her hand behind my head

and pulls my face close to hers, and we

breathe together, mother and child,

still in the moment, secure,

though temporary.  And I can forget

how temporary, just for the moment,

 

and I can live full and complete,

with a full and complete being

next to me, an individual with her own

thoughts and dreams and whims,

who will eventually grow up and away,

but who will always be

the little girl who liked me,

who cried for me in the night,

who sang a song without words

 

and danced a dance without rhythm,

and un-self-consciously gave of herself

and was herself, and taught me to be

what she wanted me to be.