A small mouth gaping open, water running down its sides. Standing in the shower, holding my youngest son, I marvel that no sound escapes. This mouth, the smallest and the loudest in our family. Pink gums with inconsistent croppings of white teeth—doors gradually guarding the view into his depths. Later there will be screams. But for now we are silent, surrounded by the sound of being washed over. 

Nose above mouth, eyes above nose. Don’t grow, don’t change, I think. And then, just as quickly, my eyes move to the mind’s horizon. To the hope of children needing me less. To words that will soon escape his parted lips—signaling the slow decline of his dependence.  I am quick to loathe and love this time. It both offers and takes away. I realize, a little too late, the antidote to my impatient mother’s heart is to slow down. 

We are now past the silence of our mouths and minds. Sprawled on the floor surrounded by stacks of blocks awaiting the fall. A shriek—not of joy but of disdain—escapes those little lips. My eyes roll to the heavens. “See what I’m dealing with here?” I ask the Almighty, suspecting this is not His biggest problem today. I get no answer by lightning strike or otherwise. 

Knowing I will forget this rhythm of release just as quickly as I discover it, I turn directly to the source of the shrieks. I peer through the small and dark doors that are still open between his tiny teeth and travel upstream of sound—fighting current that threatens to push me toward irritation. Onward to the air that funds this fury. I stop my journey within and marvel that all of this was once silent cells that decided to grow. That continue to grow. That will end as all cells do—in coffin or container. 

With the realization that the destination is death, I settle in to accepting the journey as joy.