Reading to Her

I sat next to the bed, in a chair, rocking. And read to her. And as I read, the years spun away, to a time when I could clutch her safely in my arms. A season long gone. To days and hours with her ensconced upon my lap. And me reading. Happy, careless hours, filled with stories and snuggles and "One more, Mommy! Please?"
And so the words flow, soothing. Her. Me.
It's not that she is really hearing each syllable or line. It is the ritual that matters. The sounds of comfort that float upon the air, wrapping, whispering, "I am here. Shh, it's okay. I love you. I am here."
The sweetness of that hour, the innocence of days long gone, that it provoked, leaves me weeping. Longing for more. So many days have been cast upon the seas of time, swept away with the years. I want to squeeze the sweetness from this moment. Wring it out. Make it last. Longer. But it is like clutching the wind. It brushes my face for only a moment and is gone.
I am wrenched with the leaving. Of innocence. Of days. Of moments reading. The sounds of comfort floating, wrapping, whispering.
So I run to my Father, throw myself in arms, waiting. It is here, clutched tight, that I hear words soothing. "I am here. Shh, it's okay. I love you. I am here. "