How many more days do we have like this?

On Motherhood: Tell me the days turn into years.

I write this in my head while I rock you in the quiet fading light. »»

The sky was gold when you fell asleep. Your little body relaxing into mine, getting heavier with every breath. Two hours have passed and you still have yet to stir. 

Peaceful. Content. Home. 

The words swirl around my head as I listen to the soft sounds of the rocking chair against the old wood floor. 

Rhythmic. Continuous. Monotonous. 

A rocking that sounds more like a thumping. 

Thump. Thump. Thump. 

My back aches from slouching at just the right angle so my body creates the perfect incline for your head to rest on my chest.

How many more days do we have like this? 

Your body melding into mine, listening to the quiet thumping intertwined with your soft breaths. Days. I cringe at the thought of them being numbered. 

Tell me the days turn into years. Years where I can still feel the weight of you. 

The temperature has dropped into the twenties. I’m wearing a turtleneck that has crept up with the rocking, the slouching. A sliver of skin of my waist is uncovered and your tiny hand has found it. The sticky warmth of your fingers moving against it like soft brushstrokes. 

You will always find me. I will be forever open to you. 

Raw. Unfettered. Accessible.  

A dog barks in the distance and the room has gone blue. My mouth is so dry that I can’t swallow. I am a desert. I rub my chapped lips back and forth across your soft head, feeling the peach fuzz against the grain of my skin. 

My feet are bare and cold. I don’t wear socks in the house. I’m afraid of falling on the stairs while I’m holding you. My legs are going numb. I roll my ankle around. It cracks and you let out the sweetest sigh.

Another hour has passed. I look out the window at the ridge of the mountains against the darkening sky. A darkness against a greater darkness. The naked winter trees like shadows against the moonlight.

My stomach is growling. I haven’t eaten since breakfast. Your dad made me some sort of health pancakes. Hemp hearts and chia seeds. Almond milk and organic butter. He nourishes me or I forget to eat.

We bought this house in the country of the Blue Ridge Mountains when I turned thirty. It was the end of winter and it was quiet. But now, I can hear the cars in the distance. One after another like waves. If I close my eyes it sounds like the ocean. 

You're stirring now. The shift of your breath like beach sands in the wind.

I don’t know if we’ll still be in this house when you’re older. Will we ever leave the mountains? Maybe the city will be outside our window or maybe the sea, but either way, I hope you’re still here with me. My body a resting place for your tiny being. A safe place for your big dreams.