Scraps

 

Faerie child: your first true marks on a page and you’re wearing your crown; jumping, flying, part of the air. Each one of you landed with your map folded in an unseen pocket, to be forged and shared slowly, an opening up of wonder and possibilities. Each one of you emerged with a truth that is yours alone and we watch to see how it happens.

The last time you sat on my knee, chatting nineteen to the dozen, went unnoticed. I have no recollection of the last time I cooked with you on my hip (my favourite superhero trick) or lifted you up to reach something high, or read you a picture book, your sweet hair brushing my cheek, fuzzy socks making swishing noises as you rubbed them together. At some point I fed you for the last time, covering the distance from plate to mouth with noises of encouragement.

I don’t know when the last time was that I held your little hand to cross the road, or tucked you in tight, or brushed your teeth, only that I used to and then at some point, you didn’t need me to anymore. Our atoms talked and an understanding was reached. And that is all in the way of things and just as it should be. It’s just that sometimes we keep walking with the umbrella up even though it’s stopped raining. It’s just that sometimes we look up and wonder where our small people went. If we’re mothers of faerie children, we do that forever. And like custodians of a secret library, we keep hold of scraps of paper and fold them into books for safekeeping, then find in them – years later- all the truth we’ve come to know.