Does the Momma heart ever stop beating wonderment?
Will the tears of love and pride always mix with a pang, marking what is already gone?
Silently, I watch him through the orchard trees. He leans over a branch, and reaches. As he grasps the ripe fruit, I see it, and I have to recognize it. I have to know it. His arm, long and lean, extends further than mine could.
He use to reach for me. Waiting to be picked up and held close.
Toting him from one place to another, I thought he'd wear a permanent place on my hip bone.
All too soon, a younger sister replaced him, and he took off toddling a two step to match my slowed pace. Holding firmly to his chubby hands which never quite made it around my fingers, we walked together.
Now, he holds an apple like a baseball with no effort.
He towers above me. His age ends with 'teen.' His voice is deeper than a child's.
By all counts, he is no longer a baby. He has tipped the see-saw of childhood in favor of manhood.
It is true and right. It is just as it should be.
Yet, the curls sprouting all over his head...those curls that haven't grown this long since he was two...those curls which I can bury fingers in to tousle in love...those curls, every single one of them, are all baby boy memories to this momma. And, for every one of those curls that I simply could never count, I am grateful.