written by: Heidi Baker
One day I'll remember something
I forgot before I knew it was gone,
a way of braiding wishes into hopes,
as children do.
She'll stretch up out of a deep slumber,
blink at me and yawn,
vaguely aware I haven't room
for her any longer.
I'll want to make room, open my arms,
carry her hopeful innocence
back into my bones,
turn back time, and before my mom gets sick,
freeze the world.
We'd all hold our billions of poses forever
and never would I know the depth of sorrow
I have lived since my mother's passing.
Nor would I unearth the breadth
of joy gifted in quiet surrender,
or walk through the garden born in its soil.
When one day comes, and I stand
before childish longing
with her wide-eyed trust,
I'll let her know, her work here is done.
I've found another way.
Hope forms, too, of rising through grief,
each moment holy ground.