poetry

I Want You to Have a Little Girl. {poetry}

 

There was a messy situation in the bathroom this morning. I’ll spare you the details, but now I’m nursing an eight-year-old with a stomach bug.

My hands are dry, and cracked from cleaning with soap that I reserve for bio-hazards. But, when I refilled a glass of ice water for my son, Phoenix, he wrapped his arms around my neck and said he loves me.

About a year ago, I was catching up with an old friend. He said that he and his girlfriend were talking about having kids. He described himself bouncing a small person on his lap. It was sweet. I could see them on a patio with gentle sunshine. I smiled, because like anyone who’s spent time with kids knows, there isn’t much sitting in parenthood.

The mother-son relationship I have with Phoenix, who’s getting some color back in his face, is treasure. I want my friend to have that, the dynamic empathy that pushes me to evolve, the overwhelming acceptance that I wouldn’t give it up for anything, no matter how excruciating, the giggles that make us fall off the couch, and the tears that make us lose our breath. I want him to have a little girl.

***

I want you to have a little girl.

I want you to nap on the couch with your brand new princess asleep on your chest.

I want your hand to support a head with small, round eyes gazing at you.

I want you to hear giggles as you release a soft, round body into the air.

I want you to feel little arms around your neck.

I want you to play tea party and hunt for bugs with a small person in a tiara.

I want a kiss on the cheek and “Thank you, Daddy” to feel innocent and pure.

I want you to dance barefoot in the kitchen, with little feet standing on yours.

I want you to fumble with a comb and sparkly, butterfly hair clips.

I want you to try to explain how important safety is to someone whose smile makes your heart melt and race at the same time.

I want you to remember small, delicate fingers tracing the lines in your palm when you shake the hand of someone who’s trying so hard to impress you, a hand dwarfed by your own.

I want you to lie awake in bed waiting for a young beauty to get home before curfew.

I want someone to confuse you and break you down.

I want someone to make you notice the spark of life in every being, in every moment.

And, I want her to show you how much you can love.

***

Christy Kirsch lives in California, and doesn’t mind if you judge her. When she’s cranky, time in the garden with her strawberries, chocolate mint and poblano chilies usually sets her straight, so does a swim in the Pacific Ocean. She has some short-short stories at Magic Theatre.

***

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