There was never a time when she felt more comfortable. Resting in a striped hammock between two sturdy oak trees, she combed the boy’s red hair with her fingers as he prodded each freckle on her arm playfully. The hammock swung lightly in the autumn breeze which sent tides of ripples through his hair. He would be turning three in the upcoming month, and although his beaming eyes showed no sign of his exceptionally quick growth, in his mother's opinion, his baby pudginess was beginning to melt away. Very much aware of his fleeing youth, she felt helpless, and so began to whisper his favorite story in a desperate attempt at consoling herself.
His finger stopped hopping from one freckle to the next and rested upon her left collar bone. Her senses pinpointed the smell of his hair, the tickle of his finger brushing her neck as the hammock swung, the suction of his ear to her chest, and the comfortable weight of his body tucked so perfectly into the crook of her arm. Her hand was brushing his head automatically now as her eyes took in the smallness of him. In only a few short years, he would be too big to hold. At the moment, he wanted her protection and comfort. He loved to cuddle up against her on windy days like this and share the silence. Her stories were a treat for him, but they wouldn't be much use when birthday after birthday came to steal a little bit of his dependence away each time.
His favorite rhyming story had just faded from her lips and was taken over by the soft sighs of his slumbering. He had listened to her intently, but his weary eyes had finally closed and his rocking head was resting fully against her. Just as he had done when he was a baby, he laid his head upon her chest; ear over heart; and fell asleep to its beating rhythm. Still affectionately stroking his hair with one hand and caressing his body with the other, the mother cried secretively while he slept. He was such a beautiful boy.
© Mikal Minarich
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