Photo courtesy of Pixabay.
It’s the little things I love the most,
the little things that make the good life good.
It’s brushing fingers with the boy-turned-man
I once begged God to turn my way,
and he smiles, twinkle-eyed,
and it’s still all for me,
and still my heart stands still.
It’s miniature pajamas hanging in an empty closet,
and I never thought we’d have someone to wear them.
It’s the delightful exasperation of
folding tiny mismatched socks
I thought I’d only buy for friends.
It’s my chubby alarm clock waddling in,
well before the dawn,
lisping, “Mommy, can I snuggle you?”
In she climbs, and she smells like strawberries
It’s a victory dance for that first-time triumph;
it’s a wacky dance
just ’cause we feel like dancing—
and the sillier we look,
and the faster we spin,
and the harder we laugh,
the better it feels.
It’s a monkey squeeze from a blue-eyed boy
who still begs Mommy to carry him,
and I’ll do it till my arms fall off
—which they may—
because I know it will end soon.
It’s the welcome sinking of the sun—just barely night—
and I’m so weary I can hardly cross
the toy-nado zone
to collapse and prop up my aching feet,
but as I close my eyes,
I groan a prayer of thanks,
and drink it in,
and promise never to forget,
never to squander
these little things.