I’ve never dreamed of her.
I’ve hoped and prayed and begged, but I’ve never dreamed of her.
Though a dream isn’t needed, in the connection between mother and child.
I can see her in my spirit when I quiet the world around me and calm the one within me.
I see her the same every time.
She stands tall at three or four years old. Shoulder length hair, light brown. Slightly unkempt, it’s often in a ponytail.
She stands outside always. Dirty. As if she were playing with her friends all day and waiting reluctantly for bath time.
Her eyes are big and brown. Intense, but oh so kind. She almost smiles. A look of wonder and anticipation on her face.
She is fierce. Wild at times. A true force to be reckoned with.
She hangs with the boys, except for the few sacred girlfriends.
She’s a rebel, with a pure heart. She gets in trouble often, mostly because she fights for what she believes.
She’s a lover AND a fighter.
Absolutely and whole heartedly, she is her mother’s child.
I see her the same every time. When I calm the storm within. I can see her deep in my soul.
And for that, I need no dream.