Extraordinary Sunshine Weaver

I felt so moved by this poem that my youngest sister, Cynthia, wrote for me. When I was nine, Mom gave birth to fraternal twins (under hypnosis, by the way, – courageous!). Cynthia and Christopher. I was nine years old and loved taking care of the twins. My sister Martha and I would feed them, change their diapers, bathe them, and more. I would wake them up at night after everyone had gone to bed so I could cuddle with them and rock them back to sleep.

HELD ON PURPOSE

I don’t remember this myself,
but as your little sister,
I want you to know how much it means to me that
when I was a baby,
and you were just nine years old —
our mother’s little helper —
you would find me asleep
and gently wake me
just so you could rock me back to sleep.

There is something so beautiful in that.
Even now, I can almost feel
your small, innocent arms wrapped around me
in the sweetest embrace.

It explains the closeness
I have always felt with you —
a bond that seemed to exist
before I could even name it.

The love, safety, and care you gave me then
became part of who I am.
They helped build a quiet resilience in me,
something that has carried me
through all of life’s ups and downs.

You held me on purpose.
You chose love,
and you chose me to receive it.

What a gift that is.

© Cynthia Cady Stanton*, May, 2026
*When Cynthia married Gary Stanton, a relative of Elizabeth Cady Stanton, she changed her middle name to Stanton in honor of the famous women's rights advocate.

Check out Cynthia’s blog, Becoming and Beholding, https://becomingandbeholding.com

About Cynthia

Cynthia Cady Stanton is a woman with a deepening awareness of life and spirit, and a desire to share her spiritual understandings as a helpful, healing presence for others. She lives in the roles of mom, wife, friend, sister, and grief counselor. Cynthia is what she describes as “an accidental poet.” She discovered her poetic voice four years ago while writing in a coffee shop. Since then, she has published hundreds of poems on her blog. Her voice is one of reassurance and higher understanding. She offers her writings as a means to promote love, grace, mindfulness, and healing. Cynthia has been a featured contributor on Phoebe.com several times and had a poem nominated as Poem of the Month on Spillwords.com. She’s also published on FEED THE HOLY and MasticadoresUSA.

My Time as Mommy

In my poetic memoir, Three-Penny Memories, I explored my role as a big sister/mommy’s helper to the Little Ones, as we called the four youngest of seven children. My brother Monty, the twins, and the youngest, Earle. I didn’t know at that time that I was infertile, so those memories with the Little Ones were precious. Here are a couple of poems about those days.

Mom’s Little Mommy 
I. 
Mom has three. One more five years later. 
Then births twins. Under hypnosis. 
One year later. Her seventh emerges, 
a hefty boy. She almost dies at 34. 
I’m just 10, the eldest daughter. My sister and I, little mommies and maids. 

II. 
Mom’s laborious healing. She’s the helpless observer. 
Our commotion, theatrics for her amusement. 
So many diapers - cloth back then. 
The rinsing in buckets. 
The washing, drying, folding. The pinning to babies. Sorry, some accidents. 
Bottles to sterilize. Food to prepare. 
My sister and I queue up the babies. 
One spoon in. One spoon out. 
I move on. 
My sister follows. One bottle in. 
One bottle out. 

III. 
I wake my baby siblings 
to rock and to love them. 
Then one day, his tiny lips part. 
The seventh says, “Muh. Muh.” 
Mother’s face falls. The sound, “Mama”, a bittersweet reminder and foreboding. 
I run outside to water my flowers. 
The soil, dry, undernourished. 
My violets, dry of tears. Mom’s birth-month flower. My black thumb.
© Barbara Harris Leonhard

Bearing the World 
Your equator is full. 
I hold your globe and press my ear against your skin to hear 
the heartbeat of another new sun, its glow flickering, 
a mysterious creation 
held in warm waters. 
Soft waves lap to the tiny heartbeat. Your water breaks and floods the home 
with babies, diapers, pacifiers, toys. I learn to swim to rescue you 
from drowning 
and think someday I too will 
bear the world 
and pack my chest of hopes 
with bibs, blankies, bottles. 
My dreams leave no sound as they settle into shadows. 
My ghosts, swaddled 
in umbra.
© Barbara Harris Leonhard