A feather-light finger traces the smooth skin of my cheek,
softly outlining my jaw, lips, nose.
I hold as still as I can,
waiting to see which lines she will trace next.
Eyes, eyelashes, brow.
I hold in a giggle when my lashes brush my cheek,
willing her with my stillness to continue.
"I'm drawing your face,"
she whispers.
My mama -- not an artist with oil or chalk,
but painting skillfully, artfully;
broad strokes of love,
delicate swirls of grace.
Shades of gentleness and sacrifice,
on the canvas of children's hearts and minds.
A small hand grips mine fiercely,
as I lie next to him, squeezed into the narrow bed;
sharing with crumbs, stray Legos, and a stuffed bear nearly as big
as the little boy with eyes wide open and body stiff
in the nighttime quiet.
"Mommy, will you do that thing to my face?"
he whispers.
With a curve of my lips, I sweep back his hair and kiss his baby-soft cheek,
and begin to trace the gentle slope of his nose, then lips.
Cheekbones, then curve of his ear;
hairline, eyes, and brow.
I pour all my love and calm into my finger tips,
carefully tracing a pattern of comfort and devotion,
until finally, with a deep sigh,
his body relaxes and gives in to sleep.
I don't move from my cramped space just yet.
I stay and let the peace wash over me,
soaking in the wonder of mother-love.
