Barefoot and Pregnant
Hands in the morning
while the sun struggles through the valiant blinds
heavy, flung across our son and me,
sleeping yet strong.
Fingers curling softly in sleep,
each one a thousand pounds
sliding my small fingers between them,
your strength surrounds me.
Days spent in study,
writing, reading,
following Truth on the path to God,
days have not dimmed those hands.
Hands of a man. Rough.
Weathered hands, bleeding in the cold,
discolored nails.
Hands of a man.
Hands soothing a child’s fevered brow
throwing small bodies in the air
and holding them close, smoothing wayward hair.
Hands that have known violence,
have known fury, known rage.
Hands that know how to love a woman.
The only two in all the world that love me.
As St. Christopher carried Christ once,
the Savior of the world bearing all it’s awful sins
in the hands of a humble traveler,
so you carry us.
Me.
You waited years for love in return,
waited years for me to learn love.
You taught me love with every word, your patience your impatience.
Your hands cupped around my face.
Our first-born, the gift of God.
The baby you walked rocked held fed loved.
Both mother and father while I stood by
vacant, absent.
Now tall, so tall,
five years of growing, falling, learning and laughing
cuddled up against you,
small in your lap. Still a child in your arms.
Our second-born, the vow of God.
Like you in every way.
Her face hands legs feet eyes
the way she doesn’t smile lightly.
She thinks like you, loves like you,
carefully, deeply.
Our son. Our resolute protector.
Still a baby
made of smiles, dimples, squeals.
You hold him in your arms so easily,
all rough strength tempered with such love
tenderness
the way you hold them all.
The way you hold me.
All this to say
I love you.
Today until the end of days.
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