she designed this house.
my baby girl, age thirteen.
(she loves her kitties).
she’s my crafty one.
my sweet entrepreneur.
my bright young woman.
and just like her cat
who gives unlimited love,
she will forgive me.
the sun keeps rising
and he bought a screen for pics
of all our travels
it can’t be the same
but the sun will rise again
and we’ll try again
together, apart:
this is how they live with me
sharing, not sharing
we’re stepping outside
into this beautiful yard
to celebrate love
it’s a bit risky
and only sixty degrees.
but it’s Mother’s Day.
each girl made a card
and worked to include this boy
in conversations
it’s as good as weeds
ripped from choking my garden
so beauty can breathe
if i could be a cat
curled into this ball on a bed
unaware of what noise could keep me awake
unaware of human suffering,
of parenting four teens too afraid to talk to each other,
too afraid to talk to me,
too afraid to build relationships
(so much like their mother, their father, this fear)
(but he isn’t even ours, how is he so much like us?)
unaware of the world outside of this fluff,
this sumptuous, protective ball of fluff,
maybe i’d be a cat.
but i’m only human
and have brought these girls into the world
and this boy into our home
and the world came corona-crashing soon after
and we only have each other
in this lonely, empty house
in this loud-mouthed, angsty house
in this loving, hating house
we don’t have this bed, this softness, this protection.
we can only find these feelings in words.
small gestures.
trying to speak new languages.
trying to see who or what we don’t notice.
trying to find this level of peace,
this cat-comfort peace,
with each other.
can you imagine
that after twenty-two-years
i could still panic?
panic at the thought
of what my life would be like
without his presence?
five hours today.
five hours with no contact.
(he had lost service)
he always answers.
he is that reliable.
committed for life.
if that is not love,
that a dead zone break scares me,
i don’t know what is.
and from this soil
from blustery spring breezes
good news can blossom
we flew this beach kite
on this day seven years back
(a dream in life, Spain)
my daughter, then ten
still finding joy in small things
(as i still try to)
aspen trees at dawn
a pup always by my side
cats learning to love
the kite is gone now.
(i have ransacked every room)
locked down, we let go.
until they close this
we might be here every day
(Colorado beach)
humans love water
in all its fake and true forms
(dams, no dams, fresh, salt)
our Friday night lights
makes this feel like our old life
as fresh as sunshine
if i just listen
i can gather up his words
thick as pupusas
in between masa
filled with all that he has lost
yet still hopes to gain
(i cannot fill them.
my love will not be enough.
but now we have time.)
quarantined time
to wait for flowers to grow.
to cook together.
it is a gift, life.
(even when the batter breaks
we learn to make more.)
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