Let It Come In Waves

“Mama,” he repeats, over and over, as he presses his body closer to mine. He speaks my name like an inquiry, like he’s trying it out to see if it still fits.

I wonder if the days of “mama” are numbered, if soon I’ll become “mom” to my youngest just as I did to my oldest. I wonder if he senses this too.

I continue reading aloud, running my hand through his wavy hair, remembering the ringlets of his toddlerhood. He has an undercut now, and likes to style the top in a mohawk with blue hair gel. He says he wants a man bun. 

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