‘Mama’. My first word.
The word wailed after your final breath.
How easily you offered up your mama-hand, always held just far enough for me to toddle on my own
until I finally could fly.
Not until I became a mother myself did I discover how much of me was still nested tight
into every fiber of you.
How the life-cord that bound us together those first months would never fully untether
even after you’d earned your ultimate wings.
And, how, when my own daughter would ask me, minutes after your final flight
who was going to be my mama now
I thought I would never, ever have the wingspan to adequately respond.
Nor, how, years later, I would see so clearly that you’d never actually left.
Your wings my own. As the warm air beneath.
‘Mama’, indeed. Infinitely.