The Flames

I've been thinking a lot about this poem, by Kate Llewelyn. In the middle of the drudgery of being the parent of a toddler it seems interminable, that it will be this forever. And then suddenly it's not anymore, and your sturdy, sweaty, giggling toddlers are now lanky, moody, independent big kids. Sometimes I long for the safe simplicity of those days of afternoon naps and Play School. Mostly I don't, but sometimes I do.

You used to lean
on that cot rail
and wait
with the vigour of a flame
to leap into my arms
two feet tall and two years old
a sagging nappy
archless feet soft as cat's tongues
and trodden underneath
a thick and clammy waterproof
warm from sleep
the sheet ruched at the end
toys heaped confused
neglected as the dead
a duck stuck in a corner
I could see the basket of your ribs
your hands were opened
and all your bones and life
leapt up to mine.

Kate Llewelyn.