where eight is

Motherhood. Poetry. Spring.

...then sometimes I am eight
and we stay up really late, past our bedtimes listening to records in the loft. Time is our kitten and the moonlight is soft...
and it’s finally Spring after a year of masking our faces and staying away from certain places and I am right where eight is.

I am where we get lost on purpose. We hide and then resurface. You are there and I am there and we are both nowhere else.

We dance the ancient Dragon Dance from the Empire of the Sun. It’s the graceful dance. The sacred one. The one we just made up for fun...and you are my best friend.

We watch the vinyl spin. Flip it over and play it again. We spin and spin and spin and spin...until we fall onto the pillow fort we built, drenched in the water that we spilt.
I am soaking it all in.

Because when you’re eight, there is nowhere but the middle. You’re a big girl...and still little.
You don’t need anyone to tell you what to wear.
You can pack your own bag. You can brush your own hair. But you still always want your mama there.

And so for right now, I am right here-right where eight is.