to my daughter
March 21, 2015 § 4 Comments
I wish I could capture the texture of a moment in type, to preserve what my mind will revisit in dreams and my camera could not contain. My fingers have been twitching with the words constricting the fullness of my joy, my mouth eager to whisper your news.
You can fly.
I’m not certain how we will convince your father you are earth bound. I keep imagining he will see the air that tugs at your feet or the windswept hair that hints at adventure, rosy cheeks and distracted smiles cautioning a secret. It seems impossible he will not read the difference in your gait or pride in your stance.
Today you road a bike. Pushing off of old fears no longer propped up by stubborn refusal, you swept across the cracked cul-de-sac of your friend’s front yard; eyes bright with certainty and your body leaning determinedly into each effort.
You are saving this revelation for your father’s birthday, gifting him something he has wanted for you longer than you wanted it for yourself; accidentally discovering pleasure along the way. Already, an hour later, I can see the temptation to try again in your restlessness.
You did this without me, my hope was too noisy. Now my joy feels too big, like I cannot possibly keep my happy still long enough to surprise your father.
I can hardly wait to watch him see you fly.
Love, Mom
scribblechic 
wow – no words – beautiful!
https://kmihran.wordpress.com/2015/03/21/show-your-love/
Thank you.
Beautiful:).
Thanks, Kay! It was a lovely moment, the sweetness of the secret sticking to my thoughts like bubble gum.