childhood

What I Learned Today

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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.

My Own Middle Place

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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.

Every Moment

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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.

Runaway

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Red-and-white-striped shirted
Teddy bear in hand
(his name later became Todd),
I threw an outfit into a bag
and stomped out of the house,
walking up the hill to the only
place I knew to go—
the elementary school.

With my bull horns
shining, I didn’t even look back
until I heard the rumbling
of the rusty blue Datsun
and my mother’s
screaming-banshee voice
telling me to get inside.

I don’t recall what the
original argument was over,
just that she had
raised her voice one
too many times that day,
and my six-year-old patience
had come to a bitter end.

At dinner that night,
she tried to hug me
and sternly whispered in my ear,
“Don’t you ever do that again,”
but her arms were stiff boards,
her skin was as cold as the wind on my walk,
her voice was icy glass,
and I knew it wouldn’t be the last time.

February Daughters

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Riona

You were getting into bed last night
still waiting for us to cover you up
when you told me a story,
your three-and-a-half-year-old
version of a story

“I had to get my piwow
and then I saw that Snoopy wasn’t
he-ah, so I got Snoopy and
put him down they-ah,
and it’s my Snoopy not Isabewa’s
she thought he was hers
but that one’s mine.”

And I realize as I write this
that I have a poet
for my youngest daughter,
and if not a poet,
a poem.

Mythili

Holding your stomach all
through the crowded mall
you let me know
it was time to go
you rushed to the van
holding out your hand
“I need my blankey
I need my blankey”
the door opened wide
and you dashed inside
five minutes couldn’t pass
with your eyes turning glass
your fingers curled silk
like it was mother’s milk
your lids relaxed
sleep came fast
and all was calm in Mythili land
because of the blankey in your hand.

Isabella

Turning seven to you
means a tea party
filled with pink cupcakes
and a houseful of girls
daintily sipping from china cups
only to abandon the table
for screaming pursuits
of chopped-up white snowflakes
foam doilies and spilled glitter glue,
cat chasings and scavenger hunts
whose competition almost drew blood
a smile on your face
as you hand out goodie bags
blow out your candles
and remark more than once,
“Three hours is not long enough.”

Happy birthday my love,
my first child
whose energy fills our lives
for every waking moment.

Grandma (One Day is Not Enough)

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I know you’re still here but I’ve already lost you—
you are not the same person who handed out hugs
as if your arms couldn’t function without being around us;
you argue now like an obstinate three-year-old
and spout words that sting till tomorrow’s sunrise,
though by then you’ve already forgotten them.

I miss those days when I’d curl crying in my bed
swallowing the salty remarks my mother had thrown at me
and being able to wipe away the tears only
because I thought of you, kisses bursting from your lips,
taking us to the beach, asking us what we wanted
for every meal the week before we arrived,
sharing your own tears on my cheeks when we left.

Every summer you took us shopping at the best bargain stores
and outfitted us in the newest styles for the school year
and taught us how to pick parsley and basil from the herb garden
and how to sauté garlic, onions, and carrots for the marinara
and how to boil steamers for just a few minutes,
then dip the clams in butter and let them slide down
our throats, their taste lingering of the sea you’ve always loved.

We exchanged letters for years, your scrawling cursive writing
filled with your beliefs about my schooling,
my boyfriends, and your Catholic upbringing,
touching my heart with your love just as much as
the gifts and cards you sent for my birthdays
all the way into my adult years.

I know you’re still here, but I’ve already lost you
and when I think about the phone calls I forget to make
or the confusion in your voice when we speak,
I recall my childhood, your ever-affectionate presence
the sweet happiness that I forever longed for,
and though I feel old and alone and sometimes lost along with you,
I still carry your Italian black hair on my head,
your sauce recipe in my memory,
and the remnants of your soul within my soul.

Trees of Our Childhoods

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It’s all about the trees. The easily climbable red maple in the front yard at the edge of the driveway, the giantess silver maple next to the house that shaded it all summer, whose branches could never in an eight-year-old’s wildest dreams be reached, the one that hung the tire swing for the whole neighborhood to play on. The two white pines along the back of the property that reached up to the heavens, saved me from having to mow under them, and never complained when we bolted plywood along an upper trunk to create a sap-induced tree house. The ginormous fir in the side yard that stood next to our ever-present volleyball/badminton net—yes, the one that swallowed up not only the birdies but then the rackets that we tried to knock them down with, and then even the basketball, until I would be forced to climb halfway up and retrieve our game. The three apple trees at the edge of the vegetable garden that made pies and tarts and applesauce that lasted all winter. Even the stump of the giant oak whose fertile remnants grew into a flower garden. These trees filled my childhood with their variety, their strength, their steadfastness.

Even now, years later, I cannot imagine my life without trees. As I look out my front window, I catch a glimpse of the silver maple shading our yard, peek out the back to see the two ashes that keep the grass from drying up, especially the one that Isabella already loves to climb and that holds the clothesline that we use all summer, and the small crab apple we planted ourselves after Riona’s birth, marking our family with another generation of trees that one day my children will always remember.

Where I Am From

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I am from a tire swing that never stops
a stone wall made by hand
to match the house with the crown molded ceilings
(I can still see the corona of flowers)
window panes as thin as ice
(and covered with it too)
thick foam shutters that my mom
decorated a different color in every room,
choosing fabrics to match the walls
(sewing with her ladylike hands and expertise)

I am from early mornings before dark
the backseat of a brown Nova
hot coffee spilling on the vinyl
on the way to the newspaper
and the babysitter who lived next
to the pig farm
(I loved to hold those piglets)

I am from a lonely empty house
and Flint Creek, full of black snakes in summer
covered in ice for skating
and sledding down the banks in winter
and the swamp behind the schoolyard
(surely too dangerous for Jen and I)
that sucked a shoe off my foot
in a quicksand moment that my penniless
mother would never forgive
(it was pink and blue—I was six)

I am from “Now that you’re old enough”
(chores that never ended)
to “That’s enough”
(sister fights that left scars)
and “That’s not the way you do it”
(snatches of mop, rag, vacuum, glass)

I am from the Dowlings but with the Jordan blood
(and it’s that blood that stings)
hand-me-down shoes, shirts, and bicycles,
the store that sold Bazooka gum for three cents
and fireballs for ten

I am from Dewey Avenue (do we or don’t we?)
the secret steps that led to Jen’s house
parents whose work stole them from me
and the maple that stood in the yard
holding the tire swing with one loyal limb
shading the upstairs porch we slept on all summer
growing there before I ever came into this world
(and I know it’s still there, waiting for me to remember,
to always remember, where I am from)