miracle
my mother sits with me
at my table
making plans
a year away
every bit of this scene
a miracle
I wouldn’t dare dream
one year ago
unvoiced
my first walk through our neighborhood
and onto the trail
we awkwardly dodge each other
out of kindness
in the beginning
I say Good morning!
but soon realize
people don’t respond
afraid of my exhalation
responsible for their own
so I begin to silently wave
never good with faces
now I’ve lost the voices
from mouths that I might know
in faces I can’t see
we become random bodies
circling around the lake
and an unexpected cold fog sets in
missing mom
a friend asks
where is this young raw
I want my Mommy energy
coming from?
I rewind
when did I feel this way before?
third grade
I lost her for 5 weeks
while Grandy battled cancer
endured surgery
survived (just barely)
and all we could do
was talk on the phone
maybe this is one small part
of my crying need now
the current fear of death
wrapped up with the past threat
of losing my dear grandfather
and mom
in different ways all at once
the exhaustion
of trying to be strong and good and selfless
while also just wanting to be
hugged and held
told with certainty that things will be alright
that I wasn’t losing her forever
I remember the sudden understanding
of all she did for me
the terror that it could all be gone
and me undoubtedly unable
to handle things alone
the desperate missing
of her protective physical self
we all know
I was different when she returned:
kind caring compassionate
suffused with gratitude
I learned what I had taken for granted
in our family
where mother-love is not a given
she wrapped us in love beyond question
beyond hoping for
I still don’t want to do without it
and don’t yet know
how I’ll change this time
pandemic
when the threat is everywhere
to everyone
at once
worrying that anyone you know
may die
at any time
knowing there’s nothing you can do
but withdraw from all those
you may soon lose
remembering to stop and feel
sun on your skin
sometimes
and give thanks that for now
you still smell roses
still taste wine
a hike together after isolating
the meadowlark singing
from the very top branch
of a ponderosa pine
melted summer into song
spilled in golden ribbons
across the park
and into our grey hearts
healing the hurt
of our long aloneness
warming our cautious bones
what I’ve been asked to give
I knew it would demand something of me,
but I was not prepared
to deliver
my living mother.
merging bubbles
I don’t know
how to merge
one small round bubble
with another rainbow-streaked sphere
in a way that expands us all
instead of ending in
an abrupt
pop
safer-at-home start
our first trip to town in 5 weeks
and the new reality is everywhere:
masked bandits entering banks
and mailing letters
it feels so different
seeing it all in person
my kind husband like a
stagecoach robber
and no end in sight
no way to know
how to best love
our loved ones
safe
this is the safe time
everyone snuggled in their beds
minds easy
in our cheerful cabin
at the end of the plowed road
we go unmasked
rambling around the hills
confident in our isolation
things are mostly black-and-white
in such a small world
we have already put the pieces together
in a way that spells out
safe
but soon
the closed roads will open
the drifts will melt
appointments will be made and kept
the wide world will beckon
and the confusion of a thousand choices
will return –
our life of too many options
for right now
I’m going to luxuriate
in this small quiet safeness
throw myself down
and make snow angels in it even
press my whole body into its
cold near-certainty
before brushing myself off
and steeling for the next wave
one month isolation
now there is time
to witness winter melting
to sit and listen to icicles drip
to watch snow go to water to wind
and yet
there is still not enough time
to do all that should be done
the hours are filled by so much less now
we forget how to be busy
accept going slow