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Tweet tweet my birdie, tweet

Sweet sweet my birdie, sweet

 

When your heart does beat

For the love you meet

Give her your golden seat

She’ll be at your feet

 

Tweet tweet my birdie, tweet

Sweet sweet my birdie, sweet

 

Night night birdie.

Hey Santa,

I’ve never written to you before. I don’t think you know me. But I know you, through pictures and movies. Sorry it took me this long to write. I know you travel all over the world. But I didn’t care for you to visit, before today. It’s not me I want you to come for. It’s him. My son. He waits for you. He has written you a letter. It’s with me if you want to read it. He expects your gifts under the Christmas tree when he wakes up in the morning. Do drop by.  We don’t have a chimney. But I’m sure you can find your way in. Has he been good? He has been. He’s a good boy. My boy. I love him. Please make him happy.

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‘I held your then little hand and tried to lead, but I kept losing the way.’

‘It’s ok, Mama.  You really were too young to know.’

‘And you know, I really thought I was doing what was best.’

‘I know, Mama.  And you were doing your best.’

‘But you came out fine.’

‘Fine like you, Mama.’

just a little dream to dream.

like the little boy does, with his little toy boat, in the little bathroom sink, making little water splashes, among little rubber fishes, under the soft ceiling light.

just a little dream to dream.

we can sail weekend boats, and cruise blue waters, trail white sea foam, pass silver fishes swimming, and soak the golden sun above.

with just a little dream to dream.

Chairs around the wooden table.  Tablecloth of charming blue elephants.  Purple daisies in a glass vase.  And a simple chicken dinner.

That’s all it is.  A simple chicken dinner.  Made with love.  Served with love.  Shared with love.

It tastes of love.

throw the tooth

behind the sun,

far, far behind the sun,

and ask for a gazelle’s tooth in place of the donkey’s tooth,

behind the sun,

far, far behind the sun,

my Son.

Based on regional folklore, children are told to throw their milk teeth (traditionally nicknamed donkey teeth) behind the sun, and ask the sun to give permanent teeth (traditionally nicknamed gazelle’s teeth) in their place.

Remember when his fingers guided you up the wooden bridge.  His eyes watched you slide down.  His hands caught you on the other end of the bridge.  And carried you back up again and again and again.

Please be easy on him now.

He is still only a boy, only taller.  And you are still his red toy car, only bigger.

‘Mama, am I pretty?’ the little girl asks.

‘Yes, you are.  Prettier than the moon and the stars.  Prettier than the flowers and the butterflies.  Prettier than the rainbows and the clouds.  Prettier than the streams and the pebbles.

Prettier, prettier in my eyes than any, any boy will ever, ever see you.’

His little hand sits in hers.

She holds it to guide.  She holds it to protect.  She holds it to love.

And he gives her his hand.

 

His hand is not little any more.  And his hand does not sit in hers.

Her hand now sits in his.

He holds it to guide.  He holds it to protect.  He holds it to love.

And she gives him her hand.