motherhood: impossible questions

Bedtime was half an hour ago.

I’m standing in the kitchen

surveying the day’s damage

in stacked plates

and dirty glasses.

Popcorn kernels on the floor

and shoes that should be in their proper homes.

Little footsteps across the floor

and a small hand on my arm.

“Mommy, I’m just scared.”

I squat down.

Red cheeks.  Wet tears.

I hug this seven-year-old darling with the blue eyes and the freckles

and I ask, “Why?

Why are you scared?”

“I just don’t know when I’ll die.

I don’t know when you’ll die.

Will you be old?

Will I die in pain?”

My heart bends

and my brow wrinkles

and I cannot fathom the depths of my youngest daughter’s burdened little soul.

“Piper.”

I kiss her damp freckles

and I hug this daughter of my heart.

“We don’t know.

I don’t know.

We don’t have to know.

We don’t want to know.”

And we pray

and she echoes my amen.

I find myself loving this child

in this moment

more than I ever knew was possible.

The weight of being on the other end of all these questions.

Of being The Person With The Answers

when we all know

it’s a terrible case of mistaken identity.