momentous MOTHERHOOD

“I grew up on these streets,” I tell her. We wait for the light-up man to tell us it’s safe to cross. “I walked with my brother and sisters to this corner each morning before school.”

The air is cool. We watch the cars and trucks pass by, listen as the rumble of engines and melody of birds mix effortlessly. It seems so natural, these sounds of the city. My daughter looks up at me, her eyes wide with wonder. I know it won’t be long before she’ll be starting school. I’m trying to prepare her for the unknown. She won’t have the guidance of her siblings like I did. I had the sheltered wings of my mama, my papa and her aunties and uncle when I was her age.

She only has me. Suddenly I feel the weight of my thoughts and fears fall on me like a heavy, driving rain.

“I like this place, mama,” my daughter’s voice bounces into the air, “Did daddy like it here? I think daddy would like it a lot, if he was here.” Her voice softens. “I wish he was still here.”

Faith over fear, I silently remind myself. I steady my voice as I respond, “I wish he was here too, baby girl.” I take a breath, let the feelings collide inside me. Strength for my daughter, heartache for our loss.

Another breath. Slower, deeper this time. “I have an idea. Let’s think of him when we’re here. We can pretend it’s daddy every time the little light-up man appears in the sign and tells us it’s safe to cross the street. It’s like he’s watching out for us.”

She looks toward the sign. Her eyes hold a sense of intrigue that I can’t fully unpack. I know my idea is small, but I hope it does something good for her.

Motherhood feels that way at times – a series of small efforts wrapped blindly with love.

I give a smile and a squeeze of her hand as we cross. “And yes,” I finally answer her earlier question, “Daddy did like it here. He loved that you were going to grow up in the same place as me. He loved the people here and all the stories I would share of my childhood. Your daddy loved this place so much. It was his idea for us to raise our children here rather than moving somewhere else.”

I feel the warmth of his presence in my soul as I speak. The presence of the man I’d fallen in love with so long ago. The man who explained to me the necessity of clean shoes in a guy’s wardrobe. I thought he was joking at first. But the endearing genuineness in his voice, and the condition of the years-old-but-looked-brand-new sneakers on his feet, told me otherwise. The man who could make me laugh and drive me nutty at any given time. The man who’s eyes filled with tears as we welcomed our baby girl into the world, thanking me for her – our girl who’s now looking to me for memories of him.

“I love Daddy,” she says as we continue our walk. “I love when you tell me stories about him.” She turns her head and waves toward the street crossing. The light-up man blinks as the sign gets ready to change. “Bye, Daddy! Thanks for keeping us safe,” she blurts out.

I can’t help but smile and sigh in relief. I guess telling stories of him will be healing for us both.

I never imagined doing motherhood without him but I’m praying I always feel his wisdom and presence around me. And I’ll choose faith over fear as I try to embrace the days ahead with our daughter at my side.