Stone after stone he throws into the river,
and the water rippling waves of laughter,
to meet the tiny feet kissing the shoreline.
I, his mother of three years watch in awe
the sacred gift before me, my son, and a river
that brings me each day a pebble from life.
I swell into an ocean from praise,
“Mama, are you pretty.“
I hear the waves rise and fall,
“Mama, help you.“
I bask in the sunny beaches,
“Mama, cook you.“
I tow motherhood between boats,
“Mama, worry don’t.“
My son is a hurricane on past pain
and leaves me standing—
debris soaked by love and gratitude.
* First published on Medium