I wear Ian in the stretchy fleece of my sling, and he rests down, drooling, with his head fastened to my chest and hair curling wet in the body heat. There is a private delight in motherlove, and even in public display, she can’t exaggerate to express it. All the patting on the rear at the curve that was once her belly. All the wiping back of his hair. The fifty kisses on the face during one church service.
When they all stand in worship, I can’t move. He is heavy and sleeps, and I won’t wake him, and I won’t sing. I just sit there. And behind my own closed eyes, I sway, tired from such a lack of sleep and tired from my vain imagination. And in one startling thought as if from a dream where I’m falling, I remember: I am a daughter.
They sing “All I need is You,” and I agree and say sorry. Again this morning I find myself mistaken and corrected just like that morning on the cold dorm floor where I first met You and pressed myself long in the heat of Your exposure.
I don’t know who I am or how I got these clothes on. Carry me like I’m Your pride, and I’ll roll back my eyes and rest, sure of Your sealed arms.