Over coffee I say, spinning cream into liquid,
that I am three years from forty,
ten from fifty after that.
My friend laughs but she’s just 34.
What can she know?
Too early. At least the first time. This is when my son walks in, still sleepy himself, and crawls up and under the covers. He doles out hugs and kisses, snuggles up and says “Mmmm,” and a few mornings ago he actually uttered the words, “I love you, Mama,” voluntarily. I close my eyes again, enjoying the calm before the storm.