An Ode to Motherhood

When you were laying in bed waiting for me, I was too caught up in my own morass to walk towards you. The veils of ego were too heavy for me to push aside. For you, there was half a hallway separating us; just half a hallway. For me, there were endless, serpentine tunnels layered in mud that ensnared my feet with each step. Eventually I grew fatigued from the movements. The movements became careless, when they should have been a concerto composed just for you. The notes were there, my dear, I promise. There were tender diminuendos and sustained curioisities. Thoughts in the shape of you were as native to me as the release of my breath. I just hadn't learned how to play the notes yet. I didn't know you could send love notes down a hallway as effortlessly as a river delivers the next season. I wish I knew how much power a simple "good night" held, how much it meant to you. I would have flown to you and delivered those words on a small satin pillow like a ring bearer ushering in eternal love. I couldn't give them to you, though I knew you deserved those words. And more. If I could, I would give you parades of verse, each line lauding the perfection of you. I would build you cities replete with silk patterned awnings to provide you shade, endless beaches for the sun to bless you daily, and bridges to transport you to your most breathtaking fantasies. Yet, I know I can't. You will build cities and bridges yourself. And I will rebuild my tunnels. And we shall find each other in the most exquisite hallway lined with wildflowers that will have blossomed from all the precious seeds planted over generations.