Wattpad works

01 November 2011

One Sunday

On her lap a quiet moment with a book of trains,
or cowboys and Indians, or a page of wild color,
exotic animals half hid by jungle brush,
or single letters that then stood for dog or cat or xylophone.
I do not remember.

There on her lap
she whispered in my ear the words of a story,
the beginning middle and end not at all important,
only her voice,
soothing tonic I must have cherished.

A mother's words,
a moment likely locked in my memory
but years forgotten,
footprint on my foundation,
Being that I am.

This moment lost I value still,
as I watch it repeated before me,
a woman, her lips to a child's ear,
the child who will one day forget.