Growing
He is wrapped up in Santa jammies.
He is
wrapped up
in Santa
jammies,
towhead bent
over sugar
crisp
cereal
and fingers
curled
around orange
plastic;
Playing God
over a table-top
world
of mini construction
equipment.
This
is the last year
he will balance
on my
knee,
offer me
smushed
marshmallows
to accompany
my cooling
coffee
breakfast,
and wrap his
tongue,
clunky,
around uncertain
syllables.
Next December,
his bubble toes
will peek
from the open
mouths
of big-boy
pants,
my thighs
missing
soft-soled
footy-pajama
kicks
and the padded
press
of his "just in case"
diaper.
He will be
melting
into a little
Man
by then,
Full cheeks
too tough
for gentle
kisses,
and chubby arms
too lanky
for round the neck,
baby-monkey
hugs.
There are ribbons
blooming
from wrapping paper
wreckage
at the foot
of my chair,
cardboard
strewn
in bread-tie tendon
connections
across the
carpet,
and soon
Christmas
will taper off
into just
another
Sunday;
But for today
we are still
at the dining
room
center
of the universe,
little cotton covered
heels
bumping
at my knees,
and my nose
against
the soft-back
of his
neck,
I lace cold
coffee
and
Johnson's baby
shampoo
through layers
of marshmallow
sweetness
and pack it,
gentle,
into the cradle
of my mind,
all wrapped
up
in Santa
jammies.
About the Creator
Teyana Jackson
An aspiring writer and poet currently living on the East Coast. More work can be found on allpoetry.com, thebluenib.com, and in the poetry anthologies "Circular Whispers" and "Seasonal Perspective"
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