Waiting Mothers

A week plus has grayed me.
Eight days I’ve “spoiled” myself with dreams not of the sweetest sort.
I did everything I could just so my thoughts wouldn’t let loose.

Tomorrow I’ll scream.
I’ll scoop them up into my arms and hold them tight for a long, long time.
Until he himself starts murmuring, “Mom, enough.”

Until the pale hairs, the unpleasant dreams, and all the minutes spent creeping from corner to corner—waiting for that invisible time to “align”—are compensated.
With my heart’s captain, Do.

Silly, that motherly nature.
Not even silly—straight up foolish.

At first, you encourage.
Support.
Motivate—“cross the sea of hair, jump through all the puddles with a smile.”
You explain (mostly to yourself) that the boys need to be pulled from cozy little woes,
Thrown into deep waters so they learn to swim.

And then…
After saying goodbye,
After tearing away part of your own heart—all those “philosophies” vanish, who knows where.

“Peek-a-boo!” you shout at the disappeared ones.
And they are silent—without a single “mur mur.”

Just a week ago, they were loud and confident.
Now they are quiet, making room only for:

Sharp questions:
“Is it cold? Are you hungry?”

And painfully stabbing doubts:
“Are you scared? Does it hurt? Are you too tired? Are you sick?”

Until I experienced these “sharp” thoughts firsthand, I would hear a sigh from a mother sending her children off to strict camp conditions and think:

“Why let them go, Mother, if it’s so hard for you to stay?”

And now—after having walked to the other side, the side of letting go and waiting—I quietly and sincerely embrace all the mothers who wait, graying, dreaming unpleasant dreams, marking the days until reunion with their heart captains.

Like shooing an annoying fly, yet even in that fleeting thought, I think of those mothers who send their children not to 8-day strict “war camps,”
But to places where farewells are indefinite, without the word “play.”

When I let one more thought, one more question, jolt through my “stabbing thoughts and sharp questions,”
I realized there are far scarier experiences in life than turning gray faster or dreaming bitter dreams.

This time—

For the heart captains.
And their mothers.

For the fact that they grow up.
We love them no less for it.

And for the fact that we should never have to join the ranks of those mothers who let go, not to camp, without the word “play.”

N E V E R.

I embrace you all,
V.