Mommy now

I’m waiting for you she says.
She waits.
I’m waiting but I can’t hear you.
She listens, hopeful.
I’m waiting for you and I don’t know if we will ever meet again.
She sets aside the wash cloth, picks up her diapered dear, sits in the squishy chair they’ve adopted, dear nestles in to her lap content and she begins to read, “My name is Nicholas, I live in a hollow tree.”
I’m waiting but I’m happy now she realizes.
When we meet again we’ll hardly recognize each other.
What will we have to talk about?
We won’t. We’ll watch the sunrise over a corn field and remember how it looks over lake Michigan.
Then we’ll look at dear sleeping in his bed, adore his baby face more than we ever enjoyed the most beautiful sky, even in New Mexico.
When darling arrives, I have forgotten I am waiting.
Darling in my arms, dear by my side, both napping, I breathe slowly, in and out, quiet like never was.
There you are.