The Musings Of A Mother, The Echoes Of Childhood
It's the Little Thing's
The wonderous sound's of laughter
Echoes through empty hallways
making pitter, patter sound's up and down the stairs
Just here, a memory of little hand's holding on to a banister,
Smiling, dirty faces, a muddy handprint,
Along a freshly painted wall
With now unsteady gait I walk from room to room
Another memory, then gone so suddenly as though imagined
In this space now empty all except the bare essential
A glimpse of big brown eyes staring in wonderment
Of doll's lining shelve, clothes recently discarded
Strewn carelessly along furniture and floors
And a voice I've come to recognize as my own
Gently chastising a reminder of the need for cleanliness
The smile that comes from my daughters' lips, belaying my stern intent
My youngest
Seeing it for what it is, unmoving, secure in that knowledge, she carries on with play
Dismissing my word's for meaningless chatter
Turning eyes so like mine towards me
watching as I pick up articles of clothing
Lovingly refolding and putting them away
So intense this Child of mine
Thinking, she will no doubt be a beauty one Day
As I smile and walk away
Smiling still
I move along walls now slightly yellowing with age
Feeling for the notch that years ago a baseball made
Just here, and below a cherished frame used to sit
I remember an irreverent sorry, from eyes as huge as saucers
Then a smile as I comforted with word's again
Chastising for playing indoors
This room also empty no car's truck's or airplanes align the walls above the bed
All prized possession boxed up to be passed on
To the first born son of a first born
No comic books or baseball cards
No books of adventure to stir the wild imaginings
So like your Mother in that regard
Empty except for a bed and desk that now fills that space
Barren and cold, bereft of life that once it knew
My most mischevious Child
The memories of you brings a smile to my lips
My first born such joy you have given me
As I continue along I stare through the open windows
Watching the curtains as they gently move
The breeze catching the ends
And again I smile, my middle Child another Son
The middle Child, of a middle Child
So quiet but with so much to say
Barely a whisper at times, but with a heart so filled with love
Always a smile for Mommy and kisses aplenty
With hug's as big as the Texas skies
His Sister's favorite, or so she lies to all three
With nary a complaint, he'd help her comb her dolls hair
Put a finger just so to help tie a bow
The mildest mannered of the three he loved to laugh
A practical joker
At the antics he stoked more like his Mother I think
At least here a football, a miniature basketball still sits
I always loved his room best
Big open windows overlooking the front yard
Where crepe myrtles and a giant oak blossoms
In the Spring and Summer
In this middle room, I often sat and contemplated
Just here by the big open window
Tired now I sit to rest to contemplate the gift's that living has bestowed.
Below the stairs, voices ring out
Yes the voices stronger now
Voices from the past and ones of new
Slowly I rise making my way below stairs
Big brown smiling eyes look up at me a look I have seen before
From eyes so closely resembles his Father
A broken vase lay in shards upon the floor
An irreverent sorry with a wry grin brings a smile to my lips
My first born's first born
A wry grin and scowl now marring a perfectly sculptured face
Twirling a baseball bat in tiny hands
He pathetically apologize for the tiny nick in the wall
Hugging him tightly I try hard to be stern
As I gently run my hands over a mass
Over black curly hair, I trail fingers lovingly
Worried brows so like mine amuses me
As I gently chastise for playing ball in the house
Holding on to tiny hand's I look down at my Grandson and smile
So the cycle again begins
Written in 2012 The ending of course not representative of my grandson, creative liberty taken as I envision my Grandson being just as mischevious as his Father. Of course, I couldn't climb stairs either I used a chair lift. Writing involves taking certain liberties with a Story, I take a lot of Liberties at times. But one Day I know it will happen just as I envisioned. My Grandson and I have a special connection. When that Day comes Grandma will be waiting with open arms.
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