The miraculous feeling of caressing your child and solving his most saddening problems: snapping on the missing part of a toy, finding the favourite pillow that somehow got misplaced, knowing the answer to questions about water and snow. The elated feeling that you are plenipotent and wise, trusted and vital, required and desired. You have good advice in each pocket, magic dust in your hair and can turn dark moods into smiles and flare. You are the parent. Holding all solutions, central and firm.
The fear it will soon vanish – leaving you small, mediocre and wry, when questions become more difficult, lost objects turn into lost friends and perished dreams, when fixing a situation requires more than stitches and glue. The panic the future inoculates – blurred, dreaded visions of times to come when you fail and chip, imperfect and wavery.
You start collecting boxes, hoping they can contain and preserve memories of moments, propping fleeting feelings to stay stronger than time – empty, they reveal the scenes the heart decides to store, unfolding bright and forceful in your mind when latching and unlatching little metal locks.
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