My Morning Sunshine
Your little face,
my own personal sunrise,
peeps over the edge of the bed.
Eye to eye,
nose to nose,
you dimple good-morning,
curl into my side.
I have a long-held phobia of my face.
Don’t touch it. Ever. It makes me squirm. You don’t know this, nor would you care if you did. You run your fingers down my cheek and pat me softly, gazing intently as if to memorize my features.
The sweetest, most intimate caress.
You are the first to rise and the last to sleep,
talking and singing to pass the hour between bedtime and your body’s time for slumber.
Every night you fight sleep,
and every night,
on the stroke of 9,
your room goes still.
Once again, fallen on the battlefield.
Arms out-flung, covers tangled
You lay as you fell…
Then there are the times that sleep approaches peacefully, and you dream, hands tucked behind damp neck, a smile on your face, as if lounging in the sun.
In the quiet dark, I kiss hot cheeks and breathe you in.
Searching for the face of my last, my baby…
More puppy than boy,
you never walk.
You gallop, frolic,
tumbling from point A to point B
climbing up, climbing down,
and it always ends with a race that you always win.
Physical. Tyrannical. Volatile, and lovable.
Determined, and forceful.
A tornado of emotion, one moment furious,
the next moment laughing,
easily cajoled out of temper
by a silly face or new discovery.
Animated, you never simply tell a story.
You illustrate with eyebrows and dimples, hand motions and volume.
Fearless yet fearful – the carousel still brings you to tears.
New faces, large crowds, or a doctor’s office,
and you bury your face in my neck.
On your own turf,
you are master and captain,
boss-man and president.
Happy, angry, laughing, tears, dimples, and temper.
My baby, my beloved, my boy, my last.
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