Brooke. My first born. My joy. My regrets. You dance around our home with your housedress, tiara, and mismatched socks. You are so happy. You see the world for its beauty. I wonder how you can be mine.
I remember our walks in Hoboken. You crying in your Bugaboo. Me crying too. I drowned out your tears while I listened to your daddy’s and my wedding songs on my IPOD.
Me trying to sooth my colicky baby. Me trying to sooth my sleep-deprived, sad, lost self. The stroller plunged through the mud and drizzled streets.
Sweet Child. I wish I could go back in time. Your newborn tears would wash away my anxious new mother frustrations. I would whisper in your ear, “I’m sorry.” I would hold you so close and feel your little pounding heart. “I’m here,” I would say.
I would hug you and your daddy so tight. We would be force field of love. We would stay that way.
No outsiders to shake us. No wishing for when you would walk or talk.
“Hey Mom!” You snatch me out of my thoughts.
“Are you working on your A to Z Challenge?”
“Yes, Honey. I am.”
“What are you on?”
“B?” “Only B?”
“Ok. Can I do lunges?”
Yes, my love. My B. My World. My Light.