On a high stool

This evening while dinner was in the oven and I stood near the stove,
my daughter climbed up on a high stool
and sank into the circle of my arms.

There is something elemental about a child tucked under your chin
the soft cheek against your skin,
the hands tucked under your arms or wrapped around your neck,
the easy breathing pattern you join into.
Even the rowdiest rogue will settle into tranquility,
for but a moment,
when his head rests against your chest.

The primal desire to meld with mother seems to melt away over time.
My boy still holds me close,
but the moments are fewer and fleet of foot.
He still clasps my hand in his,
with fingers almost as long as mine wrapped around my palm,
but he lets go quickly.
The need for security is waning,
though in the dark night he still searches to orient his orbit to my location.
I remember a time when he fit into that magical space beneath my chin.
It wasn't so long ago,
and yet feels like ages have passed into shadow since then.

I wish I could snapshot these moments with my mind,
lock them away for the coming days when birds flutter from the nest.
Days that once seemed afar off are sneaking in close,
stealthy thieves that covet the spaces in my heart
and move my children ever closer to independence.
Push though I may,
they still come circling close to snatch my little ones.

But, there tucked under my chin,
the moment is ours alone - my girl's and mine,
at least til dinner is done.