I remember my mother kneeling making herself smaller than me— taking my hand and guiding my boy body, barely learning to stand, over the white hill and into the stream— clear water all the way to the porcelain bottom— water spouting from the fount in gentle eddies that moved towards her and caressed my ankles in its upward flow.
She was kneeling beside me in her white night gown— the shadow of her stomach touching her thighs. becoming the outline of a smiling moon goddess urging me to bow to her grace from her heavenly oval— Her hand holding mine gently guiding me down letting the water flow around the lower spaces of my body— the tether between the rising deep and slipping away or falling under.
She lets go and I watch her hand weave through gleaming skeins— testing the water to make sure it was true.
Then, her hands scoop the water and pours it over my head, my glowing stomach, my flexing fleshy baby knees— one…two… three— times, each repetition causing foam to form
and then four— five— six the foam washes away, floating to the white edges.
Then, my mother lifts me up— brings me closer to her-- a hug in the water and soon, out of it.
I watch the water recede, in a whirlpool away from me, she getting taller with each caress until she is taller— taller than me, drying my head, robing me with the towel— the water once clear shrouded in my dirt’s shadow.
The moment is over but there will be others until I can stand by myself.
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