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, more mature and grown up, kind of like what happens at age 7.
Yet I look at you and there’s a deeper longing that has aroused within me.
Maybe because I see in your eyes, you have so much more to say than ever.
I can just see.
I look at you countless times a day, wondering if you could say something at that very moment, what indeed would you say.
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 color of expression would paint my world, filling my heart with hues I only dream of.
I think about you and your mind, and 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 breathe 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, 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 onto my blank canvas. And I will, for as long as I need to.
I will 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.