Mother Sway

I move in unison

to the peaceful motion

of a young mother

standing several pews before me,

her child holds her mother's face,

a small hand on each cheek,

and looks into her own eyes.
She reaches small puckered lips

toward her mother's forehead.

 

My own sway began

in the fourth month,

a subtle, almost unnoticeable

side-to-side movement,

arms reaching down

over my extending belly,

hands clasped beneath it,

cradling the incubation

as God performed his miracle

on that eldest child.

The fetus, tiny at best.

Perhaps it's practice

for the sleepy hours

of rocking and cradling to come,

or perhaps it's the silent,

nervous anticipation of

the arrival of a new life.

 

Whatever its origin or purpose,

it just begins.

While standing in church

or waiting in line,

the gentle sway

rocks and comforts

the unknown life

in my womb.

That time in life

passed for me,

my child now too large

to hold, to rock, to cradle,

but love grown

from a seed

to a towering redwood

since life in my womb.

Now 13, some days

she needs abundant hugs

and reassurances,

and other days,

she's torn

between maturity

and a kiss

to her mother's forehead.

Mother sway sits now

on a shelf in my heart

for use at another time,

for grandchildren,

or perhaps

to simply participate

in the rite of passage

to keep rhythm

with the sway

of a young mother.