when i was a little girl,
i remember clearly those nights that i would cuddle into my daddy’s arms.
the living room was dimly lit, the rocking chair fluffy and soft.
he would rock and hum to me, and i would feel so safe and calm.
i can’t be sure how many times i fell asleep that way.
or how many nights my daddy’s chest was the only soothing agent.
even when i wasn’t so little anymore…
i still cuddle with my daddy every chance i get.
what i didn’t know then was that it would be the standard.
i would dream of some faceless man that would come home early from work,
make dinner while i fed our sick baby,
who would clean the kitchen and get all of the baby’s things in order…
who would lay by my side as i fed that sweet monkey,
and then who would tenderly sweep that baby up in his arms
and rock him gently in circles
and sing sweet dutch lullabies until he finally fell asleep.
i dreamed of this very moment.
and wished i could bottle it up
to view over and over in my pensieve.
after such a long day,
with such a sad little boy,
i couldn’t think of better medicine for us both.
