Once upon a time, in a land far, far away, you were a child and I had magic. My kisses made your tears disappear. My cookies melted your sadness. Your “lovey” and nap solved tumbling world crises, vanished them into thin air.
Not so now. Now your home is full and my floors are empty, of tiny toys and rollicking crumbs. Now when you call (BTW not enough), you have problems I can’t poof away. Money problems, relationship problems, state-of-this-spinning-world problems. My crystal ball eye can’t tell your future and my conjuring is at best only words. Syllables dropping.
I worry. Did I spend too much time on the rules, when I should have guided you though the white space? The space outside of the rules, and in between them. The under-over weaving of chance and circumstance. Did I give you a leg up to climb that big oak clear to the top, cheering you on from below. Did I draw a crayon sketch to diagram this folding, unfolding world. Instead of saying, “don’t get sent to the principal,” I could have said, “when you see the principal, tell her this. . .”
I’ve lost that magic wand, and the power to make the stars line up. My old lady hands cannot set things to rights for you. On this Mother’s Day, I give to you this painting. A wish. A thousand kisses to banish tears. A thousand wings to fly. Strength to choose your color and call beauty out of the wild white unknown.
Now when am I going to see the grandkids next???