My Son

Fourteen years ago he was laying there, in his narrow bed, sleepily gazing at me with those sparkling blue eyes.

He was stretched out on his stomach, his right arm up and under his pillow while his left cradled his cherubic face so that he could see me.

His wavy, sun touched hair was touseled in such a way that one tendril lay curling across his forehead tempting me to touch it.

The yellow childhood blanket, pulled up past his shoulders, accentuated the smallness of him.

His face showed evidence that the sand man was soon to take over his dreams.

I had come to kiss him a gentle good night, but found I could not then leave.

I stayed and held him tightly and for his safety I then prayed, thankful to have been given such a precious gift.