History of Sorts

Before the first breath, before the first cry,
There was a promise written in the sky.
A silent vow, etched deep and wide:
“Whatever comes, I am on your side.”

It starts in the hollow of a rocking chair,
In the scent of milk and the smoothing of hair.
It’s the weight of a world held in a palm,
A frantic devotion masked by a calm.

The love of a parent is a quiet construction:
It’s the floorboards that hold, the steady instruction.
It’s the light in the hallway when the shadows are tall,
The invisible net that catches the fall.

It changes its shape as the seasons roll by,
From wiping a tear to letting you fly.
It’s the art of the tether—the long, silver thread—
That lets you go forward, but keeps you well-fed.

For they are the roots, and you are the bloom,
The echo of laughter in a once-quiet room.
And even when miles or the years pull apart,
You are the pulse in the center of their heart.