I watched you paint the other day. I savored the moment of watching you swirl your paintbrush into the color of your choice, wondering if that may be your favorite color.
I feel that you are getting so big, becoming a real little boy,You are getting so big, becoming a real little boy more mature and grown up, kind of like what happens at age seven.
Yet I look at you, and there’s a deep longing within me. Maybe because I see in your eyes that you have so much more to say than ever.
I can just see.
I look at you countless times a day, wondering what indeed you would say, if you could say something at that very moment. I imagine that you would say things with much wisdom and deep understanding, like I see in your eyes. I imagine that you would make a joke and laugh, indulging in humor, which I see exists in your heart. I imagine that with every word you would say, a new shade of expression would paint my world, filling my heart with hues I only dream of.
I think about how frustrating it must be to still hold the power of speech somewhere inside you. I know it’s there, but it’s hidden and I don’t know where it is.
You see, I love hearing what all my children have to say. It’s like a palette of endless color combinations, and when blending different tones, I feel their imagination, stories, fears, aspirations and thoughts.
It is colorful oxygen for a mother’s soul.
I simply would love to know what’s on your mind. To understand,I want to hear your voice hear, feel . . . really know. I’m listening, though. And I always will.
But, oh, it hurts inside. I want to hear your voice. Your very own voice.
I am holding on to my blank canvas. And I will, for as long as I need to. I await the day when you will paint my world with the most magnificent colors ever imagined. You will swirl your brush in a new palette of sound, stroking the depths of my heart, and you will color my soul radiantly.
