Skip to main content

Standing Still Musing Ten

The world seemed to stand still in the rush of morning activity.

Bookbags were hurriedly stuffed in the car, breakfast barely consumed, jackets hastily donned against the unexpected cold.  The promise of the day was unfolding as the engine made its roar to life and the blast of the car exhaust let out a poof of steam against the wind of this new day.

Turning the corner, hoping to catch the light, coffee sipping and backseat chatting about the hope of seeing friends and discovering new things under the watchful eye of the teacher in the front.  The music softly played, NPR an afterthought, hands turning over wheel, lights on against the dawning mist, a new day of activity forming ahead.

Pulled to the brick edifice of learning, little legs jumping out the door pushed open, grabbing the backback slung over one shoulder, "bye mom," in jubilant excitement, dashing off to 4th grade, waiting and meeting friends to go stand on line until the time to go inside, feeling confident and independent in this place now alone, for the first time, a big girl.

Slowly shifting gears, hoping to catch another glimpse of the pink coat and dreadlocked ponytail lost in the sea of ones not so little anymore, driving slowly past the building, wanting time to stand still, knowing this is the last one.

Desperately wanting to turn around and go back and turn back and be in that quiet space again when the fingers were tiny and the toes counting to ten, holding her softness, smelling her hair, feeling her wispy locks.

Time should stand still for this last one, turning ten.


Poet's note - this muse is written in honor of my youngest child and second daughter.  She is the last one and in the final days of her "single digits." As she is embarking on her entry into the double digits, this poet-mom is celebrating all she is, this overcomer daughter who battled a major illness to reach remission, who still fights through chronicle conditions to play the cello, guitar, sing in an audition choir, be on a robotics team, and play basketball.  She inspires me every day and I am honored that she shares my space.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Bridges by Tayé Foster Bradshaw

Walking across time ©Antona Smith, taken in Alabama, 2014 Bringing me to you or you to me over a way through- tears and fears to bring us to the other side of possibility probability reality reality crossing structures through over under Crossing from New Jersey. ©Antona Smith 2016 hold on don't look down look down walk on over dance on over wheels on over over over over water and roads and all the modes that bring me to you or you to me collectively connected collaborating across the great wide way ©2016. Tayé Foster Bradshaw Group, Antona Smith. All Rights Reserved. Bridges used to scare me as a little girl. In the town where I grew up, in order to get from my neighborhood over to the swimming pool or summer activities, we walked. I was always fine until we reached the crest of the hill and that looming structure that connect roads-to-roads, over cars zooming beneath, promising me opportunity on the other side, if I just

Black Mama Tears

It rained this afternoon Loud claps of thunder Almost couldn't see the rain For my tears falling down Black Mama Tears too many dying in their sleep on a run at a store too many stopped just walking just working just breathing It rained today And I couldn't see for all the weeping of Black Mamas.

If I Die In The Mourning

Life spilled out like unspent tears watering a desert of dried up promises scattered like sand on an ocean floor absent water and mist to quench love's thirst. Left shrivled up and parched in the bright sun of expectation that the perfect shell would open up like an oyster waiting for the pearl to drop. Lying on the bottom of the pebbled walk stepped on like shards of brilliant glass clouded by the wetness of blood poured out.