Today at the park, burrowed in the depths of your stroller, you slept under the green crochet throw your grandmother made decades ago.
I wonder whether you dreamed the magic I saw for both of us.
Shining green hills, blustering mountains of grey-blue clouds in the sky, river stones, orange yarrow, dirt paths pelted to smoothness by last week’s thunderstorm.
As you slept I pictured you growing up here, each weekend a new treasure hunt for beetles, moss, leaves.
The little grassy knoll over there will be the perfect place to learn how to hit a baseball; on the asphalt path along the river you will pedal ferocity on your training wheels; and, lord, the ducks swimming upstream below the iron bridge will harrow your new soul with delight.
I felt your future thrill.
Not like last night, which was hot with despair. Can I mother? I asked the darkness. Can I mother well? If yes, then how?
Was I prepared for it to be this hard forever?
The hills just to the east were invisible last night.
But today, this morning, at the park, as I packed you back into the car, I let go of your hand for the first time of millions, and breathing rushed in.
I entrusted future you this morning to that glorious viridian oasis, and I heard the stories you will tell your children and grandchildren, of the days we spent untethered, flushed with wonder, exploring everything beyond reach.