Your Story

If I could write you a fairy tale,

and freeze you in time,

as you dance under speckled stars

to a nursery rhyme,

I would tell of a child,

with wispy blonde curls,

whose giggles would travel

through night, as she twirled.

I would tell of her eyes,

through which I could see

the pattern of light,

that they say came from me.

And I’d try with my might,

to keep you safe in this tale.

But my dear, what’s a story,

without snags to unveil?

And you know very well,

that given the chance,

I may keep you right here,

carefree in your dance:

with your wobbly knees,

and your soft, squishy wrists,

your baby-soft cheeks,

which get rounder when kissed.

So I’ll freeze you instead,

in my mind and my heart,

a torn page from your book.

(My favourite part).

And we’ll work on the rest,

brainstorming together,

until the time comes

for my pen to untether.

Then maybe one night,

beneath that same speckled sky,

with steady knees,

and dainty wrists,

with your voice not as high,

with your personhood growing,

and your dreams all afloat

you’ll turn to me and say,

“Mom, look what I wrote.”