Everything I Want To Ask Her.

Questions and wonderings flitter through my head all day long.  With everything I want to ask her. Like butterflies they escape, purposely set out from open hands, knowing they can only be released, abandoned.  Butterflies liberate, lost in the wind.  My questions sink and bury; no sense holding on to them.  But I can't help but feel the weight some days of everything I want to ask her.

This is only freckles of everything I want to ask her.  Everything I can't ask her.  Everything I'd cling to her to know.  Her voice would help me trust my own.  Her hug would feel like safe embrace.  Rest.  Oh to be a mother, Oh to wish for my mother, Oh to know the answers to everything I want to ask her....

I'd ask her about connecting; what made me, me.  I'd ask her about walking early. And crawling on my knee.

I’d ask her about clothes size, and independent play.  I’d ask her about books.  And The Word along the way.

I'd ask her about pregnancy and nursing in the day.  I'd ask her about in-laws. And Connie/Deb Tea Day.

I'd ask her about drool, and then avoiding dairy. I’d ask her about bottles.  And growing mama-wary.

I'd ask her about waking gas, and wide-alert-eyes.  I'd ask her about schedules.  And thoughts on Babywise.

I'd ask her about crying, and sleeping through the night.  I’d ask her about cereal.  And waking morning light.

I'd ask her about jar food, and baby feet that sweat.  I’d ask her about sunny days. And wearing SPF.  

I’d ask her about teaching, talking what we see.  I’d ask her about making meals.  And deciding to have three.

I'd ask her about mothering, her without one too.  I’d ask her about empty holes.  And mentors that she knew.

I'd ask her about travel here, tomorrow and today.  I'd ask her about hugging me.  And telling it’s okay.

I'd ask her about Littles, see those bright blue eyes.  I’d ask her about Wiggles.  But in heaven she resides.