If granted the mercy
of a miracle,
I would return for five minutes
to that young mother,
relaxed at last
yet wearing the day’s weariness like a heavy blanket,
resting in the glow of evening lamplight,
comforted in the soft, blue rocking chair,
holding the full measure
of her life’s treasure
within the circle of her arms.
One, a blue-eyed pixie,
golden ringlets still damp at her nape.
Another, with fringe of dark silk tresses
framing eyes of brown.
The crisp scent of pink bubbles lingering
on small hands and feet
fresh from the bath,
calm and waiting in hopeful anticipation,
a question hovering in the air.
Love warms the three,
in that cozy chair.
I would grasp that mother by her heart,
a wise witness from her future,
and offer warning with fierce and desperate command,
Nothing will ever matter more than this.
Say yes, then read it again.
Again, Mommy, read the story again.