The Crib

Ah, the crib. It mocks me at times, seemingly laughing at my hopes and dreams. Constantly reminding me that it is empty as I walk by. It's silence making me painfully aware of the absence of the sweet baby girl that does not rest her dark-haired head on the tiny pink flowers that run across the sheets with abandon.

Ah, the crib. It stands as a sentinel to the homecoming of the child who will chew on its railings and bang on its walls. It knows it cannot possibly contain the one it holds....there will always be outstretched arms reaching deep within its confines to free the little one who at once seeks its protection and familiarity, and yet wishes to be out, so to be held and loved . The irony? That little one is held already. Not in the arms of her mother, but in her heart. She is also loved beyond anyone's comprehension. For how can we possibly understand with our limited knowledge, the depths of love that fill our hearts and beings.