Yoga Mom

Yoga Mom

You asked me to do yoga again today. I never like to do it, except that you ask. So I do.

And I think about how you and your siblings have always made me stretch, learning to maneuver in unfamiliar poses.

You used to push into our room in the night to squish beside me. For a time, you couldn’t get enough of next to me.
Now we wait to be invited into your space, and cherish moments at the table or in the car.

Last night dad and I sat on the couch in your room, and I marveled at the way every inch of wall contained a piece of you, and I thought of the little girl who never wanted me to throw away the placemats you colored at a restaurant when we worked together to clean your room.

As you sat on your bed making jewelry for your sister, I felt the stretching. I felt the shortness of time, and I said, “Do you remember you used to say you wanted to live with us forever?” And we all laughed as you told us it hurt your feelings as a kid when we said we didn’t want that for you because we wanted your life to be more and fuller.

As the time has changed from years left to months, I am glad we prepared you all for lives that are more. But I wonder just a little how to move past the tightness in my chest and the ache I feel as you ask me once again to stretch.