They say babies remember the rhythms
of their mothers’ hearts.
The familiar vibrations
of their mother’s voice
can lull them to sleep.
When they grow older,
her kiss can heal all wounds,
and a call can somehow make
the world feel manageable again.
Twenty-five years have passed
since I heard my mother laugh.
I imagine my tiny hand
wrapped around one of her fingers,
or falling asleep in her arms
while her eyes struggle
to stay awake.
I miss someone
I can’t remember
and long for a bond
no one else can replace.
There are days when I wish
I could shrink myself,
reverse time,
and crawl back into her womb,
cradled inside
the last place I was safe.
