i'm back at work today
after a solid two weeks
of rest and relaxation
in which i found this schedule
from my first job
age seventeen
(started there at sixteen)
where i'm scheduled for all but four days
of July of '95
and i've never stopped since.
really stopped.
even when i was
home with the babies
i watched other people's babies
and the two weeks
thirty years past due
just seems
so
short
Just like us, twenty-one years back, they were walking their two dogs. The sun was ready to set, and their dogs would plop down on their laps later, ready for a rest. They were grinning in the golden light of the first day of fall, so young and beautiful.
She wore a black t-shirt that accentuated her bulging belly, he a ball cap and a matching shirt. No worries on a Saturday night. Just get the dogs home, put the baby-in-the-belly to bed, watch a flick, go to sleep.
But they had to gawk at me. Crane their necks for the scene I was making.
“Just ONE PIC!!”
I was begging; pleading.
No, it didn’t matter that they’d rushed through the fancy meal I’d spent hours preparing. That their friend was late and didn’t even have a bite. That the remnants of the Minnesota Wild Rice stew were spilled across the kitchen. That their friends were already in the park taking sunset pics.
That this is the last Homecoming.
And goddamn it, I needed JUST ONE PIC.
My baby girl, her friend since sixth grade, her friend since ninth grade, her other friends waiting at the park.
Just. One.
Because this is my last Homecoming.
I looked over at the expecting couple, turning the corner but still craning their necks as I squatted down, iPhone on pulse mode, trying to capture the snark, the impatience, the beauty.
“Oh… you’ll be me before you can blink,” I shouted, and they laughed and laughed and laughed as they walked down the block, not knowing how hard those coming months, years, moments would be. How they’d be begging for one picture, one moment with their baby, their child, their… young adult.
How quickly these sunset moments flash before our eyes.
Before you can blink, they are gone.
the cat is so cute
stretching herself on futon
in new spare bedroom
tries to fill heartache
for our four-bedroom dream house
emptying our nest
this Funchal art walk
makes me miss my young artists
at home without us
yet we must adjust
with the empty nest so close
i can feel its grip
this trip is a test
to see what “just us” feels like—
we’re on sold ground
Form JDF-97. That is what I researched and printed, ready to post on the door today. The door of the house my husband and I bought at the ripe old age of 23, thank you Air Force and VA loan. Thank you for giving us this house that somehow sits under a dark cloud since we bought it, with every fixer-upper problem that ever existed, from an ever-flooding main drain to an ever-flooding basement to hail damage as thick and broken as my heart right now.
The house my second child was born in. The only house my children knew until we packed up everything and moved to Spain eleven years ago.
The house with the huge and expensive yard.
The house with the lilac bushes and the playground clubhouse.
The house with the two-car garage, the covered patio, the jetted tub.
The house Bruce thought we’d live in till we died, his Tennesseean tendencies so hard to break down.
It’s so hard to break down, this life, this shattered siding we “invested” in, this roof we’ve replaced once, this dumpster full of junk that isn’t ours, this tire swing that’s still there.
In my Subaru, sitting across the street with my youngest daughter and her forever friend, I had the “Notice to Quit” form next to me in the passenger seat; she had the tape; I had their phone numbers.
Instead, I took this picture. I saw them throwing things into the dumpster and loading things into the truck and never noticing us. I saw my life walk in and out, in and out of the empty garage, the giant spruce next door, the giant ash still growing in our backyard.
And I couldn’t get out of the car. I couldn’t confront the man with the arsenal of guns, the daughter and her girlfriend who’d lived there for years though she wasn’t on the lease, the broken siding, the unanswered insurance calls, the probably-leaking roof, the definitely-flooding basement we scraped everything together to finish… the loss.
The loss that is so profound when you quit. When someone gives you a Notice to Quit, the first step in the eviction process. The Life Eviction that is my second child moving out, barely 18, still that baby born in this room of THIS HOUSE, and wanting to live there now instead of living with us.
Look how proud we were, holding that baby in that tiny garden-level bedroom, Izzy just a bit apprehensive about her loss of “I’m the center-of-the-world status”, us in our twenties, in our home, our home, our home…
Her home.
There was no Notice to Quit. I didn’t get out of the car. Made a phone call instead. Quietly pleaded for the keys, the vacancy, the lease to end.
If you didn’t notice, I almost never quit.
And neither will she.
A few days after she was born, my mother held Mythili in her arms, Mythili with her ever-open eyes, her neck craning for me or for another look at the world, and my mother said to me, “This one has been here before. She has lived another life.”
Without the spiritual background that is ever-present in so many lives, but not our life, I was surprised by these words from my mother, a second-time grandmother with her second-born granddaughter. But not shock-surprised. Just surprised. And yet, I knew she was right. Mythili had a presence about her from the moment she entered the world, an energy, an awareness of her environment that was never so obvious in my other two girls.
Mythili looked around at the world and immediately questioned it, even from birth. Where’s the milk? (Colostrum delays). Where’s my sister? Where’s my Daddy? Most importantly, Where’s my Mama? She observed, dissatisfied, her mostly-immovable state.
“You have one of those babies who hates being a baby,” the midwife told me at our six-week checkup. “Once she can sit up at about six months, you’ll see a total change in her.”
Mythili, who craned her neck from birth to search for a view of whoever was walking into the room, knew that her surroundings, and the people within them, meant everything in the world to her.
And you asking her to do this meant everything in the world to me.
I know it was you because I searched the crowd after, my face stained in tears, my hands still shaking, my heart still leaping with pride and disbelief. I found her counselor who told me it was your idea, your encouragement, your words that convinced her.
And it was only a moment out of a thousand moments in my daughter’s life. My daughter’s life that has been filled with happy memories and tainted with sadness these past few years. My daughter, who attended the high school where I teach, where I’m given the privilege of seeing one set of graduates after another pass through this gym before the ceremony. My daughter, who was hiding, sitting by herself at the top of the bleachers, all of her Class of 2023 friends gone, chatting amongst themselves, because of grief, loss, rivalry, meanness, jealousy, bitterness… death. My daughter who took this selfie with me but kept the speech a secret.
My daughter, who during the COVID lockdown, when one of her beautiful art pieces was being featured on the school TV show, couldn’t be convinced, not with note cards, not with me filming an example, not with any words, to record a 20-second video to describe her talent and inspiration.
My daughter took your words and put them into her heart, stood upon the stage in front of a thousand people, and honored me, honored the friend she lost, and most importantly, honored herself.
For a decade I have watched my students, my refugees and immigrants, enter this stage and share their 15-second speeches about how Denver South helped them form a new life in America. I have watched as struggling American students, those lost in the crowd, those never-valedictorians, those never-heard-of students, had a moment of glory.
And I can never thank you enough for giving me this moment of glory in my daughter’s life. For giving her your words so that she could find her own.
Thank you for giving my daughter her words with your words. Thank you for giving me this moment with your words.
graduation tree
she chose Granny Smith Apple
sweet, sour, pie-love
Monument Valley:
the perfect sunrise rest stop
to light our faces
snow at Grand Canyon:
surprise bucket list side trip
to catch her snowfall
all three together:
it feels like a bucket list
to let them g(r)o(w)
Step Write Up 