She Did Not Know

She did not know she was holding all the years to come.

She thought she was only holding
a sleepy little girl
who had finally lost her argument with the day.

She did not know those small hands
would someday pack apartments,
drive toward a city of her own,
and learn to carry someone else’s burdens.

She did not know the weight in her lap
would become the weight in her prayers.

That is the trick of parenthood.

God never hands you grown children.
He hands you Tuesday afternoons.
Warm cheeks.
Milk cups.
Heavy eyelids.
A little head against your shoulder.

Then, while you are busy wondering
if you are doing any of it right,
He quietly turns those afternoons into memory.
And memory into people.

Years later,
the chair is different.
The house is quieter.
The little girl has become a woman.

But somewhere beneath every brave step she takes
is the rhythm she learned first.

A mother’s heartbeat.

The first place
any of us
ever called home.