There is this mobile. It dances down from its ceiling perch; casting the moon, setting the sun, shooting a star. It isn’t that special of a mobile. Its paint has dulled, its body the result of a cookie cutter cut-out. Individual, it is not. The same mobile hangs in every room here, its present constant, what happens beneath it - is not. Its valiant effort of cheer is a feeble, but an esteemed, attempt.
Beneath many versions of this same mobile - I have cried and rejoiced. On this day, it floats above us, so peacefully in unison with the lullaby singing my baby to sleep. As she drifts in one arm, my hand rests safely in the grasp of my husband’s. We quietly rock, and our breaths fall into sink with one another. I’m thankful for the chain of comfort we’ve created here, between the three of us. Like the mobile, we are separates parts; thriving on the thread that links us, moving together as one.
For the mothers whose eyes have looked upon this mobile through tears, and for the babies who’ve cried as it cast its shadows over the walls… tonight, I offer my prayerful heart.