I am an observer of hearts.
I wonder how this became, how the task was granted, gifted.
I hear a declaration from my own lips: it is the same for all mothers. But it isn’t – can’t be.
I see differently than they, because these hearts come from within my own: a mirrored room of infinite reflected passages.
I want to feel the beat within each refracted tunnel, know the pulse of each intimate thought.
I am a spy of hearts.
I pretend to find this simple. Being entrusted with so much passion.
I feel skin of satin, hair of silk, tears of dew, fevers of time and growth and change.
I touch on each of their dreams. Try to understand or even anticipate what makes them thrive.
I worry that their doors will be closed to me.
I cry out to be admitted, fearing that they will go where I cannot follow, only stare after with longing emptiness.
I am a grower of hearts.
I understand the need for autonomy, I do.
I say it out loud: they are apart from me. I will watch, absorb, revel, and remember.
I dream in memories that will keep me from falling into the deepest of sleeps: forgetful.
I try to hold on: this is how their laughter feels in my blood. This, their need. This, their perfect, velvet edges.
I hope they’ll grow up to understand.
I am a keeper of hearts.