she clings to her mama’s bosom,
her face a mirror of her father,
and crawls about the room
with the intentions
of discovering every tiny item
that ever was dropped on the floor.
i try to pick her up,
but she can hear her mama’s voice,
and i remember how much i loved, hated
the need that my girls no longer have.
is this my year of
baggage dug up from
depths beneath the earth
where i thought i’d buried
every last tag of remorse?
is this my year of
bricks stacked up along
a wall that keeps me
from where i am
and what i ache
for on the other side?
is this my year of
rain poured over my soul,
quenching the ardor
beneath my skin,
drowning my senses
until i can no longer breathe?
is this my year,
my year that i have to
let them go
let them go
let it, let it go?
they are small still
but not small enough.
i look at the magnet
of the fat-cheeked, bald baby
holding up the picture
of our young niece.
there she sits now,
her cheeks hollow, thin,
running her fingers across
the iPad and reading aloud
to the small sisters
who sit on either side of her.
how can this be?
how can i remember so well
the clearest moment of my life,
when i first became her mother,
their mother,
and it was just a moment ago,
i wish it were just a moment ago.
i want to take my Mason jars
and instead of canning tomatoes
trap beneath the lids
seal tight for a forever season
the years that have slipped
out of the bubbling steam of my kitchen,
out into the yard, the cul-de-sac, the school,
trap them there and stack
my three beauties in their youth,
displayed in sparkling rows
of love along my pantry shelf.
Isabella
you still want to hold my hand
at the skate rink
though i know it won’t be long
before i’ll be remembering this day,
just as i now remember our first time here
when you stood in size eights
under the lights,
sashaying without moving your legs,
a two-year-old on a dancing mission,
and here you are now,
seven almost eight years old,
begging to skate with me
while we still have a moment
left of this afternoon,
this evening,
this moment of your life.
Mythili
the words of your imaginary worlds
have developed
into a complex combination
of English, Spanish,
and your own invented language.
you will still take
two toothpicks,
a doll head and a rubber band,
or, like today,
folded up pieces of cardboard,
and create stories
as intricate and imaginative as you.
but you are not the same
with your kindergarten knowledge,
your wealth of new friends,
your step out into
the world i know i can’t keep you from.
i will let you go,
but still listen
to your stories,
hoping that one day
you and I will both remember
who you were then,
who you are now.
Riona
it is year two
of you handing me apples to core,
of dumping in enough cinnamon
to fill the house with,
of squeezing lemons,
of tasting remnants of fruit.
i tell you,
Next year you’ll be in school
when I make applesauce,
and you answer,
I hope I go to my sisters’ school,
completely unaware of
the aching sadness in my voice,
of how much I will miss you here.
And I know that’s the way it
ought to be, I know it.
But knowing your innocence,
your focus on now,
is why I can’t control my ache
that grows and grows
just as I can’t control
how you grow and grow.
Once, when the first was born,
every small smile, every night
of endless crying, brought weepiness
to my eyes and yearning to my
new-mother heart, and I thought there’d
be a time (a time for me, for us without them)
when things would be easier.
Now (and every day since that first birth,
those first strenuous and anxious nights)
I know better. The new-mother yearning
transforms into seasoned-mother longing
and I wish I could snatch back those
moments that I once wished would end,
trap them inside these ever-harder moments
of sibling battles, school-aged woes, and
still-sad-to-see-them-grow goodbyes.
Once, when the first came into the world,
every moment led to a new surprise, a
new milestone, a delighted set of new
parents and grandparents. Now, when
everything is old hat and three lives have
filled our own lives with their love, I know
that things will never be easier, that
every small smile, every night of endless
worrying, leads to a new level of longing.
how could a movie made for children
bring tears to my eyes
and leave a mark of sadness on my heart
for the remainder of the day?
because I’m a mother,
and what I see in this film
is the coming end of
the three girls sitting beside me,
now in booster seats,
whispering, “Is there more popcorn?”
and rocking the seats
annoyingly as all small children do,
and the day when
they too will pack their most
sacred toys in boxes,
ship them off to a storage room
or some new little girl’s house,
stuff their cars,
and drive away to college.
and before i can even blink,
all i will have left of this day,
of any other day that i have with them,
will be a memory.
