Chun Fung

April 08, 2005 | Category: Mother to the First Power

Dear Bear,

We spread our toes in the new grass this afternoon.

This grass was the place you learned to crawl, pudgy hands and thighs finally moving you after weeks of frustration when your only gear seemed to be "reverse". We'd watch you wedge yourself under chairs, couches. You'd howl to be picked up and moved back to the center of the room. Grunting, pushing, only to find yourself heading backwards again. If only your fanny had eyeballs.

When we moved here, the backyard was cement blocks and pricker bushes and dog shit. The front yard was packed dirt. Your Aunt Laura and I spent weekend after weekend, digging up all the rocks and crap and bricks. Loads in the wheelbarrow, our fingers bloodied, cold, and sore.

And finally, warmth came to the Earth and the men with the sod came. They flattened out the land and laid down the softest green carpet you've ever felt. All for you, the carrot-topped miracle.

Chun fung came. A warm breeze, a tickle of what was to come. Lilacs bloomed. We carried you outside and placed you in a warm puddle of green. And you crawled! Forward. Backward. Rolling on your back and giggling your sweet baby giggle.

This was why we had moved here. That moment was meant for savoring. Your happy squeak, your strings of drool clinging to the grass, your discovery that the sun was warm and the shadows cool, your freedom to choose, to go, to ...

Four years later, chun fung has returned. After a day of tears and frustration, it caught you up in its miracle. You looked down at the green. The daffodils. The buds on the trees. You twirled with your arms open and looked for clouds in the deep blue sky.

You climbed on me, happy. I held you close, happy. We spread our toes in the new grass.

Love,
Mom

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