a freshwater lake
found from memory; a hike
better baptism
childhood relived
through my daughters’ newfound strokes
saltlessly sweet taste
coves around corners
wind-whipped waves licking the shore
new memories made
family
Day Two, Road Trip 2015
sunrise wake up call
to start farmland forest view
save me from the drive
kids sleep, eat, play, grin
laugh with their pit-stop cousins
sunset goodnight view
all America
lies between the road and sun
the love for travel
Because Riona Would.
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.
The Same Zip Code
we make home visits to welcome freshmen
who haven’t set foot in our school.
on the drive we discuss gentrification,
how these kids are coming across town
to our school because they think it’s better
(but it’s so much better than the remnants
of gangs that linger in their northwest ‘hood,
in the high school that hasn’t caught up
with the white money-chasers)
inside the first house, a blond bombshell
(shy as a country field mouse) lets us into
her gutted bungalow, replete with
granite counters all around, tells us she chooses us
because the people at our school were nicer
than the pompous competitor next to City Park
we make our way back to the south side
and step into a mansion built
on top of one of Denver’s many scrapes,
with oriental rugs leading from
hallway to music room to never-ending kitchen,
with a nice mother and a moody teenage boy
who grunts responses to questions
(because manners can’t be bought)
and then, within the same zip code of
block after block of mansions that
have all but stomped out the middle class,
we pull up to our last stop:
The Red Pine Motel,
settled along Broadway
between a bar and a pot shop.
in a tiny apartment without a table,
a man stands eating a bowl of soup,
his hand half broken and bandaged,
his pony tail tied at the nape of his neck,
his high-heeled wife potty training
her three-year-old in the adjacent room.
“you can come and look, do your check,
do what you need to do.”
we exchange glances.
do they they think we’re the cops?
are they used to this?
my colleague reassures him that this is a friendly visit,
that we have papers and t-shirts
and hope for a better tomorrow
(God save us all)
we sit on the bench-like singular piece of furniture
in the kitchen/living/dining room,
(no more than 100 square feet)
with a miniature gas stove and not a single
speck of a counter, granite or otherwise
the boy is running late
and both parents engage in disgruntled talk
when he arrives,
and they plain as day tell us what he’s like
and he plain as day answers.
they use words like imaginative.
engaging.
photographic memory.
and the little girl sports her
oversized South Future Rebel t-shirt,
and the uncle waits outside and begs
to have a t-shirt too,
so proud are they of sending their boy
on the one mile
(the one million mile)
walk between their dwelling and
the grandiose Italian architecture
that will be his high school,
where he will walk past
block after block of mansions
in the same zip code
through the disappearing middle class
into the institution
that will grant him a future
or place him right back
into the thin line of poverty
that hovers over our city.
and this is what it’s like to be a teacher
in today’s world.
Butterfly Wing
With butterfly wing in palm
Hickory nuts woo her through woods
And she asks questions
Old enough now
For me to be left incapable
Of answering
How can I respond
cotton-mouthed reluctance
Keeps the words
Trapped
Fearful of the truthful
Consequence of her
Coming-of-age reality
Her butterfly wing
Crumbles apart at
The soft blow from her lips
Falls to the ground
In pieces
Carrying my lost words
Back to the Earth.
Trail of Glory
All it takes is one pic
Twenty minutes on their blog
And I’m sold
For ten grand we could
Buy that bike
Load up our trailer
And pedal into the
Vacation of my dreams.
You (and everyone else)
Would say we’re as crazy
As Icarus flying his chariot
Too close to the sun.
But I will always know
(we will always know)
That before the wax melted,
He burned a trail of glory
(we’ll burn a trail of glory)
That all of us can see behind us
For the remainder of our lives.
What He Does
What he does if you need to know
(really? it’s been five years)
is wake up one morning girl
and two obstinately not-morning girls
arguing with them to
go to the bathroom, get dressed,
eat breakfast, brush teeth,
and get out the door
before most people have left for work.
Alone, because I have usually
left already to enjoy a bike ride to school
(something he allows me to do
every day if I want, without question)
and even if they don’t want to do
any of it, with his patient words,
his no-nonsense attitude,
he convinces them to obey.
What next? You’d be amazed.
Takes Mythili back and forth
to preschool, setting timers for
snack and show-and-tell reminders,
grocery shopping with Riona in tow,
plans a menu that is healthy
(and that they’ll all eat, and that
we can afford), cooks and does dishes,
sets out my morning coffee and oatmeal,
cleans the house top to bottom every Friday,
(have you ever seen Dad use a vacuum?)
budgets and pays all our bills,
takes the girls to the park,
the zoo, the museum,
sets up play dates
and manages homework.
All without one critical word,
with the sensitive nurturing
every child needs and deserves,
all so that our evenings are calm,
relaxed, child-filled (not errand-filled),
so that we have a home, not a house.
What does he do, you ask?
Have you not seen our spotless home,
tasted our delectable dinners,
thrived on his technological advice,
and witnessed firsthand those
small arms reaching out for Daddy?
Let me apologize.
Perhaps you have not been blinded by love,
or perhaps in your narrow world of
work, work, work,
you have forgotten (or never knew)
what a happy family,
a perfect husband,
looks like.
February Daughters
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.
On Valentine’s Day
here we are
in our pajamas
munching on
leftover tea sandwiches
(mozzarella tomato,
tuna salad,
strawberry cream cheese)
before six o’clock
on Valentine’s Day
just hours beyond
a house filled with girls
in dress-up clothes
(dresses with puffy sleeves
and hems at the ankles)
who sipped from
white china cups
and licked pink
cream cheese frosting
off heart-shaped
red velvet cupcakes.
there are five of us now,
poor Daddy outnumbered
(even the dog is a girl)
and we share a box
of chocolates for dessert
given to our oldest daughter
(who celebrated seven years today)
by her boyfriend,
each girl picking out
a different fruity flavor.
and I think, as my youngest
takes a bite she doesn’t like and
brings her chocolate to my lips,
how unromantic this is,
yet
so very filled with love
on Valentine’s Day.
Where I Am From
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)
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