Little Days

Bouncing

The ceiling’s getting closer to me,

he yelled.

Springs creaking

almost as loud as his breath.

Mom!

Watch me.                                                 

Small hairs glued to his red face,

and the rest standing straight up

with blanket electricity.

Bouncing higher,

feet first,

sideways,

and bum down.

The pillows drip

to the floor.

He falls dead on his back

on the bed,

exhausted,

heavily breathing,

with hands over heart.

I rush to his side

as he closes one peeking eye

and giggles.

Stacy W. Dixon

Years ago, Carson came running down the hallway to my room, and gave me the first lines of that poem.  I finished it within minutes.  Even though it flowed easily, with the aid of the image my son gave me,  it is one of my first published and most often published poems.  Carson always called it "my poem" and asked me to read it and tell the story behind it for his school class each year.  

No one on earth has inspired me more than my children.  I love the ages they are now, and how much fun we all have together.  

Maybe it's because I am sick with bronchitis, or maybe I just have the blues.  Lately, I have been missing my "little" boys.  Those moments they would come running full speed at the sight of me, and jump into my arms. When they would come into my room and climb up on my bed to cuddle me with little plump hands.  Those priceless eyes when they looked at me.  I do miss those little days.  Yes, I do.