Our parents wanted…

Our parents wanted us to live big lives. Go far, see everything. My mom had ridden camels. My father managed our passports, booked the lodging, and sorted our SCUBA gear. As a teen, I had seen pandas, monkeys, abundant reefs. 

How different then, that I wish for my child a small life. 

If you do not go far you will not see the outlines of how it was. The edge of the retreated glacier, the stretch of the old jungle now in lines of palms, the rainbow of sea sponges faded into a black and white photograph of itself. 

Turning against my nature and our timeless human journey, I will clip your wings as you sleep and hope for smallness. With my thumb, I smooth the little wrinkle forming between your brows. Here is a quiet kiss on your forehead. A quiet prayer as I tuck you in: may you never know what we broke.