Childhood

The pitter-patter of…
well, not quite “little”
feet,
but just the same,
the sound that makes a home complete.
Through tears and tantrums,
rumpled hugs and sticky kisses,
I’m there – I’m theirs.
I yell ‘til I’m hoarse,
and they laugh.
I worry and wonder,
and they persist.
And just when I’m ready
to throw in the towel,
they come to me
sobbing “Mommy, fix it please”,
and while patching their childhood wounds
a lump rises in my throat
as a long-gone memory
saunters past,
and I recall when it was I
crying “Mommy, fix it please”.