Sunday, March 3, 2013


"Mama, come on."
He is tugging on my hand, pulling me persistently from my bed.  He had just climbed from the middle of our bed, over my back and onto the ground.
"Where are we going?"  I ask, reluctantly slipping out of bed and following him through the door, back across the squeaky floor to his bed.  He climbs in, lays down, and asks for his blanket.
He had woken up crying, and like every night, I had retrieved his little body and placed it next to mine, but this night it didn't calm him.
Sylvan, barely visible in the dark, breathing slowly and deeply.  I can't help but wonder: "can I go to sleep without him beside me?"

Our world is shifting.

My toes and heals touch together, and suddenly I am stable, balanced, light and elated.  My knees perched on the table of my arms.  I breath and when my toes touch the mat again, I wonder: "How exactly is this pose related to the crow Sylvan pointed out to me in the parking lot?"

My world is shifting.

The kid sized picnic table has all flour legs on the ground.  It had been leaned up, letting snow and rain slide downward, just outside our dining room window all winter long. In the bright sunshine, the sweater wearing air, we ate our first outside lunch of the year.

The season is shifting: winter to spring and back again.

I fall asleep with my arms folded under my head, the warmth of my husband's body breathing next to mine.  When I wake up, a second smaller warm body is curled up beside me. I hold him tight. He stirs and his eyes meet mine: "Mama, get up."

1 comment:

  1. Beautiful, Heidi. It is difficult to imagine Sylvan growing up so much. Your writing helps to paint an image of the baby, whom Ken and I saw, growing into a little boy.