Our Tattered Robe

There lies a red chenille robe in a cardboard box that I keep. It is threadbare and tattered from rocking my two babies to sleep. Many years of rocking and nodding are etched into that old cloth. The sleepless night, the ring of laughter and the joy of loving them both. The bacon is fried. The grits are done. The dishes are in the sink. I'm feeding my toddlers their breakfast and one just spilled her drink. Runny little noses, feverish heads, there will be no kindergarten today. Mom is going to make it all better. Dirty floors will have to stay. Music recitals and basketball games as they hurry on their way. Wet morning kisses as they greet a new day. The watching of the clock when her curfew draws nigh. My pride in their achievements~ my pain when I see them cry~ Setting them free to become adults was the hardest of all. Because their are still my babies, I want to catch them when they fall. Soft bottoms have left their marks and burps have made their stains. In daydreams I'm wearing our robe and I'm rocking my babies again