To love them toward the horizon

Every morning they measure taller, yet no amount of height minifies this urge to reach and clutch with both hands, to shout "careful" when they dart ahead even by an inch.

It is impulse, reflex, the tick of a lovesick mother.

But I have been careful my whole life, perhaps too careful, and do I want them to dwell in this chest-tight caution, or do I want them to move beyond me with open lungs and palms? Would I ask them to settle for a safe ceiling when infinite sky waits just outside these walls?

I don't yet know how to let go, how to stop my mouth from saying "slow down, you might fall", how to model something other than playing it safe. I don't yet know how to love them toward the horizon.

But I know I must learn.



Linking up with Emily today for Imperfect Prose.