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The sound of her voice

"I hear Moriah. I just love her voice.  I heard it down the hall." Smiles bend the edges of my friend's eyes.
I nod in agreement. "Me too."
I smile. I love Moriah's voice too.
My mom has said the same words.
About her voice.

I like the way her voice follows me around the house chattering about this and that.
When she walks down the steps after sleeping soundly, golden hair messy spilling down around her  face.
Her eyes full mocha moons.
"Let me tell you about my great dream." Her eyes fully rounded for dramatic effect as her voice carries me through a ten minute dream.
"How was your great dream?" She asks into my morning.
I laugh.
Maybe that's why I  love  Moriah's voice. The pleasant sound of her voice married to her astounding positivity.
I've never met a more positive person.
I suppose that's possibly because she's four.
I don't know though.
There isn't much pouting or complaining.
After the occasional tantrum she runs upstairs and crawls into her bed.  It works out for me.  I don't have to discipline her.  She kind of disciplines herself and falls asleep only to wake up happy.

Two nights ago I slipped into the bathtub and cradled a book in my hand.  Finally everyone was asleep. Or so I thought.
I heard the door push open.  Moriah shuffled in her too long pink flannel pajama pants brushing the floor.
"I have some things to tell you." Her tiny nose shot in the air and she climbed on top of the toilet and looked down at me in the bathtub.
"Oh?" I say back to her.
My mind smiles. I guess this book will wait.
"I have to tell you my rose of the day." And so she does.  A whole bouquet of roses tumbling out of her tiny mouth, her voice punctuating all of the pleasant memories she recounts. There are simple stories.
She finishes and I finish my bath.
"I want to get out now, Moriah. Can you please leave the bathroom?" I ask her dark eyes.
"Oh yes mama. I just wanted to tell you the roses of the day." And she leaves just like that.
Wrapping a towel around me I smile at all of the roses she finds. All the good she sees.
I am brushing my hair picturing the way her voice always forms these words as she gets into her bed, "This was a great day mama."
Everything is great.
And if it isn't she howls quite loudly and then retreats to her bed only to rise happy again.
The other day she sat in afternoon sunshine drawing.
I'm folding clothes and watching the baby dump blocks out onto the rug.
"What is that you're drawing?" I ask her.
"It's your heart, mama." She says.
I put down the towels and peer over the basket.
There is a heart with four year old embellishments splayed out across sketch pad paper.
"What's inside of the heart?" I query.
"Love." She says simply.
My eyes water.
I scoop Moriah in my arms and kiss her tiny nose.
She's the one with the heart of love.
"Draw my heart mama." She asks.
I tell her, "I want to take my time drawing your heart, Moriah."
My mind plans out a heart that is buttercup yellow and strong happy orange.
Tulip petals and sidewalk chalk pumpkins take up a corner (Moriah's favorites)
There's chocolate and glasses of tea and cool cucumbers. (More favorites)
There would be a sketch of Olaf the Snowman who she carries around the house and has lunch with.
There are brown little hands wrapped around mine.
There is sunshine streaming.
There is her favorite adjective, "Great" written in the middle.
And there are so many things that can never be recreated on paper like...
Those mocha eyes
That  soft gentle kiss
That voice, uniquely hers and four
I know four will merge into five and her voice will grow, deepen, change.
But for now I want to lean into it and listen to it tell me every day, "Today was a great day."
And I want to laugh when I hear it twist into spunky words defying her sisters, "Do you hear the sound of my voice?!" She shouts and stomps away her Hello Kitty skirt swishing behind her.
As if any of us dare miss the sound of her voice . 









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Morning

Five Minute Fridays
Morning

Morning seems sacred to me.  Having nocturnal children kind of robs me of the mornings I like to enjoy in silence and quiet thought.
For years I would get up at least two hours before anyone so I could just be by myself and be quiet.
My parents are early morning people that like to eat full breakfasts and watch the sunrise on the porch. There's something exciting about watching the day open its' eye lids with the first glints of sun playing on the horizon edge.  Pale blues and periwinkles rouse us out of pitch black and many times morning rises in strength with extravagant colors.  It signals something new.  A new twenty four hours.  A new chance. Kind of like a new little slice of life.  We are mesmerized at first at the idea of new.  It's beautiful, holy, and hopeful.
Morning breaks the night.
I love that Cat Steven's hymn Morning has Broken.  I've always thought the words were so beautiful.
Especially the last phrase, "God&…