A Spring of Joy

It’s the whispers that get me. Or maybe it’s the bouncing eyebrows. Or perhaps the twinkle in brown eyes.

But mostly, I think it’s the feel of her molding into me, clinging to Digger Dog, as she curls up in between Bri and me under the warmth of heavy blankets.

“I love you,” she murmurs, automatically, and my heart is warmed.

It’s the cries that get me. Or maybe it’s seeing the tears run down her face. Or perhaps it’s the frustration fizzling from my heart.

But mostly, I think it’s the feel of her molding into me, clinging to strands of red curls she’s cut from her own head, responding to my pleas of forgiveness for losing patience with her.

“I love you,” she murmurs, automatically, and my heart is warmed.

It’s the giggles that get me. Or maybe it’s the full blown belly laughs. Or perhaps the smothered screams as the tickle monster chases her through the house.

But mostly, I think it’s the feel of her molding into me, flopping in exhaustion on my belly, but only as a pretense to start the game again.

“I love you,” she murmurs, automatically, and my heart is warmed.

It’s the sparkles that get me. Or maybe it’s the excitement that fills her whole being. Or perhaps is the drama that is reminiscent of a much more famous Audrey.

But mostly, I think it’s the feel of her molding into me, hugging me good-bye before she’s off to a winter wonderland of play with the boys.

“I love you,” she murmurs, automatically, and my heart is warmed.

It’s the preening that gets me. Or maybe it’s the twirling to see how full her skirt can become. Or perhaps it’s the fancy footwork as she flits about the house in her “pwetty dwesses”.

But mostly, I think it’s the feel of her molding into me, pulling me to the dance floor to hold her close and sway.

“I love you,” she murmurs, automatically, and my heart is warmed.

It’s the imitating that gets me. Or maybe it’s the books and journals she already keeps on her bed. Or perhaps it’s the standing next to me in the kitchen with her Snow White apron on.

But mostly, I think it’s the feel of her molding into me, telling me how she’s going to be a Mommy just like me when she grows up.

“I love you,” she murmurs, automatically, and my heart is warmed.

(yes, y’all that is her bed, and yes, y’all that is Elisabeth Elliot’s Let Me Be A Woman that she likes me to read to her, and yes, y’all that is her flowered journal.)

Some days it’s the sadness that gets me. Or maybe it’s the desperation for her to remember everything, to make memories last with her. Or perhaps it’s the fear that I won’t get through all this, that she’ll have to live life without me.

But mostly, I think it’s the feel of her molding into me, brushing my tears away with tiny fingers brushed pink and blue with chipped polish.

“I love you.” she murmurs, automatically, and my heart is warmed.

It’s the love that gets me. Or maybe it’s the love. Or perhaps it’s the love.

But mostly, I think it’s the feel of her molding into me, falling asleep curled under warm blankets with me and her big bear on the couch, sighing softly before she drifts away to dreamland.

“I love you.” she murmurs, automatically, and my heart is warmed.

Definitely, it’s the love.