the knower
I hear him stirring and predict his every move; meet him halfway up the stairs, his nascent conscious form melting into the softness of the belly that grew him, and we wordlessly move as one organism towards my room, into my bed, across the limbs of two of his siblings, where I lay stone still until the rose of his mouth parts slightly and the tendrils of his breath unfurl in steady rhythm; and when I do slip out, it is to pause on the other side of the door, listening, because my other children fall back asleep easily but this one, this one, lingers longer in the in-between; this one could, any minute now, squawk his need, certain I will hear, certain I will come flying, certain he will feel the weight of my wing.
Much is said of being known but, oh, what a thing it is to be the knower.
He’s got a great one.
As a grandmother I remember this glorious God-given revelation through two generations. It is so good to be the knower, the protector of the tender, forming parts of the gifts we’re given. It is good to be woman.