Stories

When I am at the end of my story
looking back,
one of the things
I will miss most
is sitting on the porch swing
with a child
reading book
after book
after book.

Rocking gently,
their weight against me
lightens my soul.
Together,
we step into new worlds
as our own stories
become more and more
intertwined.

They have chosen
a vast pile of books
that sit on the table
before us
as if this reading time
could last forever.

Of course,
it never does.

Each of them grows,
learns to read on their own,
writes their own story,
rooted, at least in part,
on all the stories
now nestled inside them.

Miracle
upon miracle
upon miracle.

From my oldest daughter
to my youngest grandchild,
I have never ceased to be
awed by the abundance
of this unearned,
unexpected kind of love.

Heaven,
if I could write it,
would be an eternal moment
of reading
with a child.

By Maria Brady-Smith
Photo by Mike Smith