There is this picture in my head. It haunts me like a nail stuck in my heel. I have this picture of you planting a seed, your feet buried deep in wet mud as you plant yourself along with the seed. You are looking down intently wondering if it would immediately sprout and grow into a golden beanstalk. Then again, your understanding of today is what ties you down. And oh it makes you so beautiful.

You must be three; I have not the slightest idea of how you look now, let alone when all of just three years. Curly hair and a sly smile under your frock, your words almost slip out like water sprinkles onto my hand. I watch in awe as you mould the Earth in your hands. I watch as She obliges. I watch as you make little sounds, you are making life after all. You are creating life within the shadows of five tiny fingers and all I can do is watch. All I can do is know that I will fall in love with you over and over again, year after year when you plant a seed every birthday. I know that you'll break my heart when you're 26. I know when you caress the soil that I will still love you then. So much that I know, and yet I can do nothing with the Everything between the shadows of my fingers. The past, the present and the future mix and converge in creases of my palm.

You sketched my life as a joke, didn't you?

Yellow paper and you're all of five. You drew my fingers and then my lips and all the lines in between. My language is slipping and all I can do is watch, watch as you make me a child again, watch as you put me back right where I came from. How many times do I have to let go?

You're all of three and I'm in love, again. This sacred curse is an eclipse. You will be back and the soil will grow dark, again.

And all I can do is watch.