My First Memory of Her

My earliest memory…

I am standing up in my crib. It is dark, and I am crying softly.

I want my mother.

The door is open. I can see light from a room down the hall.

I can hear voices talking. Lots of voices.

They don’t hear me.

I look around, and I see a picture on the wall next to me.

I turn and stand in front of it. The longer I look, the more I see.

There are people facing away from me. They are looking at something.

They are looking at some people. I think there are two, sitting further away.

I look, and begin to see.

One is a woman. She is sitting on a pile of something. It looks soft.

She is holding something. It looks like a baby.

There is light around her.

I keep looking. The light grows a bit. I can see more of her.

She is looking at the baby, holding it close to her.

The baby is quiet. It is safe.

I am no longer crying.

I look at her.

I am not alone.

My Mother is there.

I lie down.

I am still.

I sleep.

Not in forgetfulness.

This, I remember.

Every time, when I wonder.

When I want.

I do not turn to those who are not looking.

I do not ask those who have not cried for their mother.

I do not listen to those who do not want Her in the same way that lungs want air.

Even though She is there.

Some do not, will not, see.

The many voices talking, not of Her, go on in other places.

They don’t hear me, crying.

She hears me.

She holds me.

Her breath is on me.

Her breath is in me, multiplying and replenishing my life.

Respiration.

Creating life through inspiration.

She is.

I am.

Still.