Mythili is twelve
she’s my soul sister, home birth
middle of my road
MiniMe Mythili
Mythili is twelve
she’s my soul sister, home birth
middle of my road
love
Getaway. Get. Away.
as we leave, she tells us goodbye till Thanksgiving,
and as always i can’t tell if it’s a guilt trip or a plea.
soon there will be no Thanksgivings.
it will be just us, moved across continents and back,
moved across town and back,
only to remain while they go.
and i pile it on my weekend,
probably our last getaway without grandparents in town,
so perfectly shaped by a Colorado sky,
so tainted by the loss in every flip
as social media stings me again.
before i walk down the steps,
i remind her of Mythili’s birthday,
our dinner reservations before Thanksgiving.
but it’s another night of tears for me knowing that they’re leaving,
they’re really leaving,
and soon all the birthdays and holidays will be just us,
just us,
and i feel the vacancy already,
the gaps once filled by friends
who’ve left us one by one,
and the greatest gap of all
lying in wait,
a storm fit to burst,
a cat poised to pounce,
a weekend ready to be ruined.
and i stopped drinking this year
and lost eight pounds
and didn’t write a single mean post
about my sister, mother, or anyone,
and it’s been ten months,
so why why why
am i surrounded by sadness?
i drive home and can’t dry the tears long enough to read with my youngest,
have only enough in me to enforce showers and teeth brushing
and folding one load of laundry,
and i want so badly to be more than the world only to him,
and i think how fiercely i latched onto him at age nineteen, knowing
even then,
even then that no one would love me that much the whole world over,
and to this day, even with that love in every step of my soul,
rejection. still. hurts.
and this is how our getaway ends:
with the waterfall that never stops.
and the road that never ends.
Technically a Winner
Girl Scout turnaround
after a friend-connect run:
silver linings shine
computer genius
who should be making big bucks
for knowing the most
(at least i won him
to save me from tech nightmares
that plague my career)
Saturday wins week
(dipped in sorrow and regret)
proving that hope wins
The Silver Linings of Emptiness
haunted by nightmares
was how this morning began:
insomniac’s fate
but then he woke me
with the love he always has
(embedded in lust)
and then a work day–
every basket now empty
(this school year’s first time)
and a lunch offer
out in the sun and crowd free
where hope lies waiting
tonight? i’ll sleep well
praying for a fresh new day
of this teacher life
Unhappy Hour
It is a long and teary hug at happy hour
Between friends who share life’s moments–
The cold and the hot, the dark and the light–
And you can see it all in their bright faces
When they pull apart from each other.
So here i am in the dark corner, watching,
The outside of the table jabbing my ribs,
My drink taken away before i’d finished,
My mouth dry and with no one to talk to
And feeling quite like a girl at a middle school dance.
And after everything that i have built up
In the past twenty years–my marriage,
My career, my traveling, my three young girls–
I haven’t built up a friendship that would
Ever offer me such a hug.
The loneliness clings to the edges of my days
As my girls begin to find their place in the world,
Spending all afternoon up the street, online,
Arranging one social event or read fest after another,
Needing me less and less.
And that is why this happy hour stings my soul
As clusters share their weekend party plans,
Their impending wedding reception,
Their last escapade at the dancing dive bar…
None of which have or will include me.
And on year four in this place where my students’ love
Fills my days with hope for a better future,
I still have a longing, an inkling of loss
That trails behind me, wishing i could be someone else,
Someone worthy enough to be a friend.
The Last Conference
at conferences she swings her legs
back and forth, swish… kick
and murmurs her replies,
her set-to-be bragging portfolio of pride
melted into a subtle acceptance
of just good enough
and with all eight eyes on her
she hears the same words
she’s heard for six years:
Talk more.
(when all the world is a whirlwind of noise
and she has the quiet demeanor of one who always listens, always knows)
and the rims of her eyes redden
after hearing the judgey truth too many times, and before a word escapes
her last-year-in-elementary lips,
they’re telling her not to cry.
they beg us then for questions, concerns,
wanting to fill in the ten minute gap that hangs like a carcass between us,
but my words are swallowed too,
behind my own quiet tears,
my own red-rimmed eyes,
and all i can hear is Scout’s voice
proclaiming that school is a lesson in Group Dynamics,
and my girl, my baby, doesn’t fit into that mold.
instead we fill the hallway with sing-song voices
to banter with her older sister,
one year ahead and one million years mouthier,
and my tears melt and her eyes soften and we move on.
we step into the cold autumn night and she clings to each of our hands, unwilling to pull away,
her last-year-of-elementary heart still as soft as six years back,
still my little girl trying to find her place in this whirlwind world.
Saturday Night Fever
on Saturdays we cut out grass
and bend bits of metal
and win medals in Tae Kwon Do
and watch weird episodes of a modern drama
while the oldest babysits
and oh how our life has changed
from changing diapers to ours changing diapers
and we go to bed hours after
the joy of slipping off clothes
to slide into fleece pajamas
with kittens in our laps
and just love love love
that we. can. relax.
Seasonal Cat Disorder
a sweet striped tabby
named Snickers in October
brings joy to autumn
Stay Gold
from this flight: find light
carry it twenty years past
your flight-or-fight life
through the turbulence
of youth’s wanderlust wonders,
past career questions,
into the blue sky
of a healthy tomorrow
shined by little grins.
find the golden light
carried by heavenly wings
that kept you on Earth.
happy fortieth,
twenty years without cancer,
and still shining bright.
Bites and Pieces
somewhere between the data crunch
that swallows all planning time,
the tech issues that chew up a third of every class,
the common planning that gnaws into bitching about work,
emailing counsellors about kids who’ve bitten off more than they can chew,
grading grammar that nibbles away time with my own kids…
there’s a teacher waiting,
the entrée of this piecemeal,
ready to share the most delectable taste
of what this world asks and offers.
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