I gaze upon you, your fervent gaze staring intently in the opposite
direction from mine. You stand stoic, waiting, hoping, anticipating some sort
of movement coming towards you. Time passes, the movement you desire has not
actualized. You flop down, your body restricted, causing in you frustration,
but a deep chortle in me, emanating from deep within my belly. I’m not laughing
in a maniacal way, but sweetly alongside the chuckle you’ve yet to let loose simply
because your age prevents you from realizing the comicality of the situation.
Suddenly, I see you hop sprightly to attention upon hearing a fictional sound
afoot. I continue to lay in wait until your hope deflates, for only I know that
nary a foot will breach the threshold. You remain ever a prisoner—seeking
freedom at the hands of a benefactor—hoping that I will be the one to secure
your release. Down you go once again, supine in defeat. So, you roll around in
your perceived cage, doing your best to entertaining yourself within the four
walls that contain you.
Through the screen I continue watch you like a stalker, taking in the
scene, but not making any moves. I’m a voyeur with a window into your world. I sit
as you stir, tracking your every move until our game of brinksmanship forces my
hand, in the form of some well-played manoeuvre by you. Something is launched.
A strident scream bellowed. A frightening thud heard.
The energy I must muster, to rise, to walk, to climb the stairs, and
creak open the door—as my aching, creaky joints let loose sounds betraying my
age—behind which your peering eyes have willed to be swung ajar. No longer
hidden, I find you, your arms outstretched, beckoning me to come hither with
pleading eyes and a rosebud mouth that cries out "Mama!" as if to say
"Took you long enough. Now, get me the hell out of this fucking
crib!" I cross the plains that consist of but only several feet, which for
you feel like miles on end. I reach into your cage and scoop you up into my
arms. With the sleep wiped away from your eyes, and the air filled with the
wafting scent of a desperately needed diaper change, I masterfully and rotely
repeat the dance steps we take daily after we’ve been reunited once the two
hour reprieve I enjoy has come to an end. And, with each post-nap period, we
will continue to engage in this two-step anew, with you always the victor
having broken free from the shackles of your crib—my warden yet again—putting
me to work until your daddy gets home.
© 2014. Naomi Elana Zener. All Rights
Reserved.
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