Friday, February 29, 2008


There are sometimes these days. Today is such a day for me. I want my “MOMMY!”

She's in the kitchen. She seems to spend a lot of time there. I shuffle up and lean into her, while she's stirring something in a pot on the stove. She looks down. A smile on her face. She lifts my chin , strokes my hair, and asks, “What's the matter, don't you feel so good?” I shake my head. She feels my forehead. Wipes a tear from my cheek. “You must be tired. Maybe something is coming on. Come.”
She draws up a reclining chair from the other room, puts in a blanky, and settles me down. I lean comfortably into the cushions while Mommy starts to boil some water and fuzzes about. While she is cooking up things, she tells me little stories, and sings me songs. Songs are stories too.

She sings about the little cradle softly rocking in a tree. It has flower curtains. Two tiny birds built it together with love and expectations. And look how intricate and delicate. In it are two little eggs. Two baby birds are born. Mommy Jay sings a song in purest ecstacy, a song so very, very sweet . And the tiny cradle gently sways like a ship on the rolling sea.

She sings about a green valley full of little flowers gently swaying in the wind, to the sound of a murmuring waterfall. The water softly sprays every little flower, even the very smallest one.

She sings about a poor, little robin red breast in the snow coming from a forest, so hungry, knocking on a window of a house, and a little girl opens and feeds the little one sugar and bread crumbs It then flies back to the forest, but comes back every day.

Mommy comes to my chair and sits down on the arm. She puts a tray in my lap with a soft boiled egg in an egg cup, the one that is decorated with a yellow chicky, and a bowl with hot cream of wheat porridge with lots of sugar. Mmmmmmmm!!!

While this winter is dragging its feet, sending more frost, more snow, making walking into tricky exercises, me feeling tired, sluggish, stick in the muddish, wishing for sunny days when I can run out in shorts and a t-shirt, bare feet in flip-flops, hop on my bike...

This particular stubborn winter day, waiting for spring... not knowing what to wear, tired of all those winter outfits, not knowing what to eat, tired of winter dishes...tired anyway...

Is it a wonder that I want my “MOMMY?”

I send my writers friends this lamentation. I cannot read or answer comments. See previous posts for reason.

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