To Stop Time
For someone always in a hurry, I also long to stop time. For my kids to read, but for my daughter to never stop mispronouncing asparagus.
For them to do their own laundry, but for my middle son to never stop stuffing treasures in his pockets, that are again discovered in the dryer.
For meals to be cooked on their own, but to have a full table, and kitchen counters filled with backpack crumbled papers and drawings, that by the end of the week currently create overwhelm, but will be future memory box heirlooms, missed when their no longer little lives are lived in laptops and lockers.
For my oldest to venture after school with his buddies, but still snuggle with me while we watch the Celtics, even if it’s transforming into a shoulder lean. Like magnets, I can feel the pull toward adolscence happening. The beginning bits of dissononace becoming more prounounced. My fit in his sneakers. His feet used to fit in my hands.
I want them to love others, but always be mind.
I want them to grow, but I want to stop time.