Silence & Song: Motherhood
After the third breakfast of the morning, two broken dishes thrown away, one spilled and mopped bowl of freshly full dog water; after the new doll’s head has been replaced upon slender shoulders and the plush Easter bunny (ears gold, neck ringed with pink silk, already stained) has been rescued for the fifth time from terrier teeth; after the headband “with the bow” and the tulle skirted dress have been located along with the underwear that says “Tuesday” because it is “Tuesday, not, Mama, Wednesday, God,” and musical requests fulfilled (“no, not Afro-pop. The Police. I want the Police,” not yet knowing the tragedy of whatever Sting later became) – after the small child with the impossibly beautiful face and absurdly wily demands settles into her small throne of play and pop songs and small books hiding huge ideas,
I make my way in a secret silence (I can hear it beneath the Copeland percussion) to water. My head has not known water in three, or is it four? days. The heated rivulets are a Paradise. My body uncoils like the finger-leaves of a thirsting fern. My skin turns a happy pink from sugar scrubs and coral colored cleansers. Oh. How I miss their smells.
The child is quiet and happy.
I am quiet and happy.
“Mama. I think I broke only one egg.”