A Mother’s Lap

“I love you mummy,” she says, climbing into my lap. The queue of priorities reorder their places in my mind. I shuffle her hips closer, envelope her in my arms, rest my head on her head, and listen.

My mouth, brushing her downy ears, whispers warmth into her heart. I kiss her silky hair, humming, gently rocking. She presses the side of her face, with jigsaw precision, against my less than before breasts. Perhaps, they still contain a half memory of drunk-on-milk deep sleep?

This precious, unplanned moment contains no fear. She lifts her head to look, through clumped teary lashes, close up, into my face. She sees no lines or shadows. My smile is her lifelong invitation to take that seat, until the day she, like her brothers before her, feels too big, too clunky, too old for my then to become redundant lap.