A season in my life is nearing its end.  I don’t have many words to say.  It is a bittersweet adieu. 

Naomi and I may linger.  But at some point she must grow up. 

And I must let go. 

Seven plus years later I sit in the same rocking chair that I nursed my firstborn son, my second son, and my third son.  And my only daughter.

Remnants linger on the cushions, reminding me of the sweet bonding that happened there each time. 

Will I be so honored as to teach Naomi how to nurse her infant, should the Lord tarry?

Could I one day be her doula?  Will I wear Naomi’s daughter so that she may rest as any new mom should?

For now, I can only wonder.  And pray that in my absence next week . . . she will remember.  Remember how she entices me to play with her feet while she nurses.  The sweet grin between gulps.  The hand that twirls my hair between gentle yet sticky fingers.  The eyes that speak volumes though they can’t talk.  The brothers that creep in quietly to reassure her that they will play with her when she has finished.  The dog that nuzzles her neck, causing giggles and nourishment to spill forth with delight.

Remember me, Naomi.  You are impressed upon my heart.

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