Tonight, I’ll hold my baby close
Katelin Farrell-Davis
Mothers elsewhere, everywhere, hold a weight so unfathomable every waking hour—their children, those guns, the amount of 'fight' left in their bones.
With all that’s going on in the world, this mother uses her words as a gentle reminder to hold your little ones close.
“I imagine a mother across the world from where I sit.
I imagine the weight of a gun compared to the weight of a child, both equally heavy, in their own ways.
I think about this mother’s arms—how they must ache from holding one, or the other, or maybe from being empty.
I will wake the next morning, undoubtedly tired, undoubtedly grateful, undoubtedly undeserving of my luck.
I think about how mothering, or a lack thereof, is what brought us here. How presence, intention and compassion are as important to our becoming as food, as shelter, as touch.
I rise, exhausted from another night of sleep regression, to find I couldn’t be more grateful for it. That my problems are my problems. That some pointless bit of luck tapped my soul on the head as I made the voyage from Mystery, across the lake, to my privileged existence here, now.
Mothers elsewhere, everywhere, hold a weight so unfathomable every waking hour—their children, those guns, the amount of ‘fight’ left in their bones.
Tonight, well after dark, I will crawl into bed next to my baby. I will forget any fear of waking her- pick her up, hold her close, quietly contemplating heaviness all the while. I will wake the next morning, undoubtedly tired, undoubtedly grateful, undoubtedly undeserving of my luck.”
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