while we can’t take back our youth
we can relive it in our children’s eyes
that is why
as much as i hate spending my Sunday
afternoon shivering in an indoor pool
while it is windy and fifty outside,
i must take joy in the excited
thrills of three girls
who play games,
splash each other and me,
and never wipe the smiles
away from their cheeks,
telling me time and time again
how much they love me
for bringing them here.
a pile of bricks behind my back
held with twine that tears into my palms
(blood spilling as it rips the skin,
blood pouring onto them)
i can’t release it
every now and then a brick
will fall from the pile,
forcing me to stop my forward motion,
bend over, bring it back
i can’t release it
a pile of bricks behind my back
held with twine that tears into my muscles
(ripping them apart at the seams,
ripping me apart at the seams)
i can’t release it
every now and then a brick
will fall from the pile,
forcing me to stop, to mortar it
to the wall i try to repair
i can’t rebuild it
a pile of bricks behind my back
held with twine as thin as a line of fire
(burning me up with every step,
burning them up with every step)
i will release it
where does it come from?
the hand slapping strict rules of my youth?
the overworked and underpaid parents?
or the soul, searching for reconciliation?
i will never know
but i work to suppress it,
the overstressed frustration
that overflows onto them,
a waterfall of impatience
out of which they cannot swim
i am looking for the pool
where the river has settled after the fall,
where we can jump in and out,
never worrying about head bangings
or rapid currents,
where the water washes over us
in cool, complete calm.
i know it is there, waiting
(perhaps on the other side of the cliff)
and we can find it if we
take each other’s hands,
hope for the best,
and dive.
with a flushed face and
remnants of tears, she
insists on putting her sandals on herself.
i clutch her in my arms,
guiding my hands over hers
to ensure they get put on the right feet.
it is the least i can do to calm my nerves,
the doctor’s receptionist’s voice
(calm as daylight): “She needs to go to the ER.”
i drive fast but he is already calling
(one mile out) “Maybe the fever will go down.”
he reads the Internet article.
i ponder what we would ever do without it
simultaneously cursing the web for making
me question my decision.
cursing myself for not charging my phone,
i call my office number one, two, three times.
no one answers. i will be alone with her.
and i cannot allow myself to cry this time
because Bruce won’t be there to wipe
the tears from my cheeks.
i use his phone to call my sister,
my medical expert, the scientist,
the cancer survivor, the new mother.
she knows more than me, and
before we even hang up, i have unbuckled
her, am carrying her to triage.
i think how at our doctor’s office
we almost never wait (how interminably
long they make us wait here, the tears flowing).
i stay strong and hold her hands as the nurse
squeezes in the last bit of Tylenol, as the doctor
swabs her throat, as she shakes and screams.
later (a phone call home, an antibiotics debate)
the doctor returns with a giant purple popsicle
and she is all smiles (we have survived).
we walk out, both of us, her tugging at her wrist,
and with the tone of a much-older-than-three-year-old,
“I need this bracelet off now.”
she tears at it on the ride home,
anxious to shred all evidence of this horrid affair,
the tears (hers and mine) released now with relief.
Isabella
with your Easter dress
and worn-out sneakers,
you carry yourself up the mountain
running so far in front
that you become a black crow
hidden among the scrub oaks,
waiting at the top on the bench
to announce to us all
the view that has brought us here,
proud of your strong legs,
your interminable energy,
your love for the outdoors.
Mythili
sitting at the middle school musical,
finger in mouth,
blankey in palm,
you turn to me and whisper,
“Is this the last song?” (your
ever polite mode of complaint)
and as we walk down the steps to leave,
I ask you how you enjoyed it.
Your reply: “That was SO long.”
(your ever polite mode of complaint)
We get to the car and you are asleep
before I have pulled away from the parking lot.
Riona
what you need
includes a simple list:
water
a wet rag to wipe your own face
getting pushed on the swing
(at least once a day)
cuddling on the couch
stories that have flaps
(or look-and-finds)
bread (so good that
it will keep you from
eating your dinner)
someone to open the white door
(you have figured out the screen door)
and
three blankets every night
(all made especially for you, my love).
One: squirrels are suicidal
dashing in front of tires in a race
that didn’t exist before
they saw me coming
Two: canals are the best
places to ride a bike along
(flat and meandering,
tree filled and peaceful)
Three: once again, fresh
homemade ice cream from
Bonnie Brae upholds its
“beautiful hill” standard.
Four: my girls are fish, in
and out of the water no
holds barred, ready for summer,
ready for anything.
Five: two hundred joggers in
Wash Park may look like a race to them,
but it’s just another Saturday in
Denver, just what my girls should see.
Six: the liquor store is also
known as the “licorice store”
because they have wine for us and
lollipops for them: a treat for all.
Seven: playing outside with
the neighbor kids is just as magical
for this generation as it was for mine,
just as free, and just the way to end the day.
Please tell me why
when I read books like The Middle Place
I think of you and want to scream,
to relive my childhood:
I want a do-over
I don’t want the rants and raves
the banging on doors
the sharks in your eyes
swimming at me with their
hatchets of hatred
I want a mother who could cuddle
with me on the couch,
read me stories while I curl up,
thumb in mouth,
and before the sun even sets
share a moment of joy with me
not one who’s so obsessed
with the food that has to
go on the table that she
trades her smiles for sour looks
before even closing the door at work
Please tell me why I can’t have
that imaginary childhood,
why I cannot gratify my memories
with some sort of happiness
that will last beyond
the closing of this book,
a place where I am comforted,
I am safe,
a place where I know my mother
loves me,
a place where she has shed her tiger’s skin
and wrapped her arms
around my aching soul.
I remember nights without sleep
and cries without consolation
diaper bags and strollers a must
for even the simplest outings
now their once-wispy hair is
tied back in tight braids and
their cries are aimed at each other
with bitter words to match.
a blur it’s been, baby years gone,
relinquished first to toddlerhood
and now we’re full-on childhood
their lives zipping by me
before I can even sit on the swing
with their daddy and reminisce
the time that is happening now,
they will be all grown up.
(I will remember this when I
hold my hand to a feverish forehead,
when they pitch a fit and act their age,
when I think every moment is too much)
because every. moment. counts.
It wasn’t enough that we had flown
twelve hundred miles and driven three hundred more—
(the Grand Canyon beckoning another set of tourists)
the pennies my parents handed me to shop with
weren’t enough
(and not because I needed those things)
row after row of turquoise and silver
birds carved out of bone
earrings that dangled or
popped perfectly in the hole
tiny tables shaded from the desert sun
the dust gathering at their feet
like milkweed clinging to the skin
their eyes almond dark
weathered as much as the hands
that wove thick cotton blankets
too heavy to wear here
necklaces that reflected
the perfect polished moments of the morning,
silver that couldn’t be tarnished
with anything less than
the strength of the hands that worked it.
those hands, those faces, were what
my nine-year-old heart ached to buy,
not the sapphire sparkle of turquoise,
but the poverty that seeped
through their thin cotton dresses and trousers,
the braids that hung down their back, frizz-less,
the forced smiles that begged, begged to sell;
but we were poor too (riding in my grandpa’s
ancient station wagon, two years of careful
saving to buy the plane tickets, clothes cousinly
hand-me-downs, camping along the road)
and I knew I could never buy enough
to give them back what so many generations
had already taken away.
Isabella
I thought by seven you wouldn’t want
to wear those fancy, “spinny” dresses that,
at age two, caused you to flop on the floor
in tireless tantrums, insistent upon wearing
a dress—OR ELSE—so much so that
even if I pulled out a pair of pants
or a onesie for your baby sister,
you expanded into a volcano of screams.
Yet, on a day when you are free from school,
I know I will still see you emerge from your room
clad in the neck-to-toe Victorian style dress
with the gold Christmas paint on the navy blue
background, the embroidered buttons, and
the ballet shoes over your tights, spinning just
as happily as if you were still two
(oh how I love you now but still miss year two).
Mythili
we have no need for gifts in our house.
you create your own.
finding on the floor of my car
a bright yellow foam brain
(product of my school district’s
ridiculous expenditures),
you snatched it up,
reclaimed it as a mouse,
carried it to the park
and named her Lola
Lola hurt herself falling
off the seesaw
and jumped for joy dashing down
the twisty slide,
settling in next to your mouth
(fingers inside)
for your nighttime soother
(of course under blankey)
every night, causing panicked screams
when misplaced,
your beloved, favorite found toy.
we have no need for gifts in our house.
we have you.
Riona
at Mary Poppins, in between
your animated reactions to the
bright colors (“it’s turning green now”
“look, Mama, it’s bright red!”)
and the tap dancing (“see all the
chimney sweepers in black shoes?”)
my friend Hanna counted fifteen times
your turning to me and whispering,
“I wuv you Mama,”
making my heart melt more
than you in your pretty dress,
your first (perfectly obedient) night
at the theatre,
your first musical,
your first time walking everywhere
I once rolled or carried you,
because no matter how many times
you say it to me,
I feel as if it is my first time
hearing your lovely words.
