In my life I have known of cradles; where the walls that surround and protect you, rock back and forth. The slow sensation reminding you that you are here you belong you are loved.
But I have grown to love other cradles.
There was the cat’s cradle. A mess of string that when woven between fingers somehow made sense. It was a conversation between me and you, another back and forth. What strings would you pull other than the ones in my chest?
Then there are the cradles that involve no string No pieces of lumber. Just arms, and my heart listening to yours. There is a comfort, a sense of security. You feel grounded. Like two figures molded out of the same clay, but never separated. You have the hands of a sculptor as they slowly run over my cheek pressing in ever so slightly over my dimples. I wear nothing but a blanket and a smile, but I have never felt more beautiful or whole.