by Laura Riddle Parry

I watch my mom cradle my newborn baby.
She is so gentle, exquisitely gentle,
as she lowers the babe from her shoulder
to gaze into her eyes.
She coos and rocks, rocks and coos.

In a way that I’ve felt, but never seen, until now
I know my mom was gentle, exquisitely gentle,
with me, when I was her baby.
That she gazed into my eyes,
and cooed and rocked, rocked and cooed.

I cradle my own baby
with the gentleness she gave me
before my memories begin.

Like all impressions left on the soul, not the mind,
I sense the same whisperings about my first mother,
my Heavenly Mother.
Who spiritually held me,
and cooed and rocked, rocked and cooed.

She would have gazed into my eyes;
known me as Her daughter,
and held me while I grew.
Though I don’t remember,
traces of Her are a part of me.
A spiritual coo. A spiritual rock.

I cradle my own baby,
and the gentleness She gave me,
is passed on.