met in a drugstore
seventy years of marriage
through three kids, three wars
still earth’s travelers
color-coded pins mark map
slept, lived, camped, drove, flew
she swims every day
he mows the yard and pulls weeds
they tease each other
best of all? they grin
take tragedy, joy in turns
till death do them part
(this is why i drive
take my kids along the road
live long by travel)
small town tire delay
gives us reason for lobster
(just a short Maine walk)
two missed turns later
we find winding New Hampshire
ready for ice cream
fixed reservation
at a camp we’ve never seen
top out my Monday
late night text shocker:
best sleeping bag left in Maine
(adventure goes on)
we find our way back
on lobster walks, ice cream runs
till we feel at home
that’s how the road plays:
missed turns, rushed escape attempts
journeys everywhere
focus on beach time
not the lost stakes, the thunder,
the flat tire hell
not the life critique,
lack of lobster, the car bed
(just the grinning sand)
clay covered bodies
splash across a Vermont beach
wreaking love-havoc
one idea spun
across Colorado wheels
makes their dreams come true
the road’s life. managed.
choices and back seat spaces
(why we bought this car)
“we’re not so different.
i can tell you live for them”
(so worth the long drive)
a morning Maine call
beach memories yet to make
vibrant happiness
this is my road trip:
let the journey be better
than its destiny
the truth spills from mouth
already opened by beer
on a Vermont night
they’ve always wondered
and now they know: love is love
in these small moments
scattered across states
childhood relived, by heart
found in their voices
this is my road trip:
empty chairs, two thousand miles
joy in every game
but life’s a gamble–
Disney or Vermont? choice? please?
i’ll take the shortcut
driving worldwide
to find a cloudless blue sky
to guide my way home
drive starts with best store
candy store within the store
(we all need fill ups)
green mountain state calls
with back roads and endless views
we make our way home:
where we stand in rain
and talk like it’s been three days
(never mind three years)
while the kids recite
the spinning songs of preschool
that spun us this time
reunion’s beauty
claws at my throat, my heart.
rain can’t renew it
this trip from my dreams:
three years, three thousand miles–
six hearts in one
walk across downtown
with my urban planning mom
walking rating: zilch
veggies are heavy
when carrying Kentucky
weight on both shoulders
redemptive moment
on green lake with blue kayaks
(words he’ll never read)
a campfire end
to a summer daydream trip
(only innocence)
full circle i’ve turned
since five years back, her birth year
(my first niece. cousins)
but he won’t see that.
only weakness bearing down
on our bright union
love like this? just once.
with dark swings on late porches
he can’t even touch
but for her bright eyes
the firelit sunset eve
forgiveness follows.
a morning discourse
to get me through the last day.
she gives in. i win.
when one of her five
desires the same gender
will she change her mind?
families surround us:
single, married, divorced, set–
love makes children grow
not biology.
(we’ve been friends forever now.
we have climbed mountains).
valleys take their turn.
she will judge, blame, point fingers.
i will love, love, love.
four weeks: iced mocha
from his teacher’s salary
to my starving morn
one more disruption
to make my students argue
(entitlements rule)
his blue-eyed gesture
almost makes the sacrifice
worth the sinking sun
he knows and i know
that he can’t buy my return;
best or not–i’m gone
no blue eyes at home
(from my man or anyone)
on my girls’ faces
nor a mocha bribe
for the heart-winning teacher.
cynic? true. best? yes.
no film, court judges,
observers, department heads
are worth this money
’cause money can’t buy
another summer soon lost
in a blue-eyed search
All three of my children were born in the evening. If you are a mother, you can acknowledge the significance of this. They were twenty-one months apart, so when I had my third, my oldest was just three and a half.
The first two spent their first night in and out of my arms, crying because of a reaction to the pain medication I’d taken during labor or because she was THAT starving.
But Riona?
I barely heard a sound from her… for EVER.
She lay next to me in the bed for all of that first night. She murmured a little, nursed a little, and settled back into sleep, happy to be near me.
And so it began. The ending of my motherhood with the child who came into the world as peaceful as a lamb.
And that is why I am crying now. Because you didn’t take a moment to see her. To listen to her soft calls, to her murmurs in the night. Because you thought an eight-almost-nine-year-old’s protests meant nothing.
What you. DON’T UNDERSTAND. Is that SHE never protests. She gives in. She listens to her older sisters’ whims and plays along, whether she really wants to or not. She fits into the jealous eye of her eldest sister, who often teases her because “no one can ever be as nice as Riona.” She is just like her father, same birth sign and all: born with a pure heart, giving, generous, willing to sacrifice all for the love of those around her.
Riona is the one who, back in March, cried herself to sleep because I told her we couldn’t afford camp this year. Riona is the reason I have sacrificed four weeks of my summer for summer school and home visits and Spanish class, all in the futile hope that I could pay for that one week of camp for all three girls.
So. NO. I do NOT want to hear that you “lost” her paperwork, sent in the SAME envelope as my other two daughters. I don’t want to come back from 50 hours of class in 5 days to hear that my youngest daughter was told she was leaving on Tuesday, was not allowed to participate in any camp activities because of this even though she ADAMANTLY TOLD YOU SHE WAS LEAVING ON FRIDAY AND YOU NEVER CALLED US TO CHECK, was told her camp store account was EMPTY WHEN SHE HAD $16 DOLLARS LEFT AND COULD HAVE BOUGH CHAPSTICK FOR HER DRIED LIPS, or that she was just… some other eight-year-old.
Because she’s not. If you could see her, really see her, for the gentle soul that she is, you would understand why I can’t stop crying. You would understand why I have given up half of my summer for my daughters to have the experience that you have now stripped from her. You would understand that a protest from a small voice should be THE LOUDEST PROTEST YOU HAVE EVER HEARD.
But you are not a mother. You are eighteen years old and have yet to learn the reality of this kind of pain.
And that is why I forgive you. Because Riona would.
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