A girl, a cup, a tree in spring


You know how to make breakfast, and lunch. Some days you keep the laundry cycling through washer and dryer until there is a mountain on the couch for me to fold. Warm, wafting fresh, as I snap sheets and towels, and put order to chaos. You teach the other children everything you know - how to read, how to play the violin, how to make more mud in the spring. When you were a babe, I did nothing but pour, pour, pour to fill you up with my love and all the things I loved and wanted you to as well. We went everywhere together...bed, showers, everywhere I went around town, I carried you on my hip. People smiled at us, and you smiled back, with your eyes that look like half moons squinted almost shut.

Some days now, I miss you. You know so much already. You're growing independent. It feels a little risky, this grafting of you into the cool spring earth of 8-almost-9 years old. Are you full enough yet? Have you memorized this connection between the trunk and the branch, the mama and the girl? I long for the in-between, to let you warm your toes in the earth but keep you growing hugged to my chest. I don't want to set out you as an empty cup for rain. Father, fill her over till her cup runs beyond the brim, spilling your gold on the ground around her.

Writing on Lisa-Jo's prompt, "Empty"