They float in with the light
the ones who left
Not in reflections
Not in words
Gestures and turns
opposite from
everything I ever
planned
prayers condensed
still etched and smudged
Clean the mirror
and my face is still
only now
I don’t see before
Can’t remember yesterday
Maybe around the eyes
When I’m tired
I see then
Lights out
heat up
Looking for before
again
floating in
forever
Traveling with family is soggy business.
It can refresh like spring shower. Urge forth blossoms and such.
More likely, it saturates.
The days drench you, and by nightfall, you’re ready to be wrung our because the weight of their water is so pervasive.
That’s horrible.
Yes.
I know.
I’m lucky.
I’m…
It’s ungrateful and selfish.
But it’s as real as the rain that keeps all of you in the room.
Because the stress of urban navigation and a morning of nostalgia and stairs wasn’t bonding enough.
Backwards, down into it,
With the teen who isn’t
And the grandmother who won’t.
In front but not in charge
SO GET OFF MY BACK!
Sorry.
I’m sorry.
Just…
I’ll figure it out.
Okay.
Wrong.
Let me try again.
Why won’t it stop raining?
Steps to Christmas
To be a child alone at Christmas
Waiting on a step
For a parent,
For a present,
For this day to sparkle like
The songs and the lights
On two trees
One real and substantial
The other
Oh-so-artificial
In its attempts to
Mimic real
Function and beauty.
Must be so frustrating,
Waiting on those steps.
My thirteen crooked,
Dusty, thread-bare ones
To their twelve evenly
Planed pine planks,
And later
Alone in the back seat of cars
Mine, his
Looking at the decorated doors
Down the road
Back the same again.
A different Santa
A different holiday waiting at each end.
Sitting on opposite steps
Staring out opposing windows
Dreading goodbye
Eager for hello
So when the last is opened
And no one is playing
Around your tree
And your steps are empty,
Except for you,
And you just might stay there
Until December 27th
Because that when you get your Christmas,
You want to burn
That fake plastic tree
To a melted mound
Dense enough to choke a reindeer. .
This happens every holiday
Every season
Every day.
Lovers
Fighters
Families
Chosens
Separated by steps
And steps
Climbed up
And fallen down.
Every one
A mile
And a ragged breath
Until the next one.
Where I don’t have a leg to stand on
Because he’s a year older
And there is no Santa
And he’s ascending beyond
So, I sit on the steps
Waiting.
I’ll bring g a pillow next time.
My carpet is old and thin.
Maybe bring coffee.
Or better, wine.
Some yarn to tangle the time
Until my Christmas.
And this year,
Maybe a gift.
Maybe someone to wait with.
So I’m not waiting.
Living.
Step
By step.
Letting the
weight
wait
be taken on one leg
before pushing off on the next.
If he’s willing.
If we’re willing.
To take steps.
Steps toward.
My steps.
My new novel Drowning Above Water is available in paperback and Kindle at Amazon.
Melania Trump looked beautiful at the inauguration.
Michelle Obama looked beautiful at the inauguration.
These things can exist as the same time, in the same sphere. Time continuum intact. Streams not crossed.
Two people can both do good work. They can both be good people, striving for individual and collective greatness as they variously stumble and succeed on their way there. One does not negate or lessen the effect of the other. In fact, one might have no impact on the other at all.
I couch my petty insecurities in the cozy cushions of the real problems we face today. My only trouble this Monday was that because my son has two homes, there were two birthdays.
Specifically, there were two cakes.
Now, know this, ( because I need to hang my esteem on whatever tiny peg of righteousness I can find) we are all together for his birthday. There is one party. Friends and family. Home team. Always.
But, there was also a cake at one house, the day before. And there was a second on the actual day.
I was thrilled with mine. There was planning. There was searching and inspiration. There was online custom ordering where was not just Luigi, but “Luigi-from-Luigi’s-Mansion” Luigi.
It was rad, as the kids say. (Okay, they probably don’t say that. I say that.)
I also say, look at the bad ass cake I willed into existence.
(Serious note, much respect to Cassie’s Cake Toppers for the really fun and fantastic artistry. )
I did that. By did, I mean I peeled sugar art off of a piece of film and I laid it on a cake someone else made.
But I totally piped that green and white icing from the metal can on by myself.
The point goes to team mom. Uncontested.
I was soothed.
And then I saw a picture of the cake he had at his dad’s house yesterday.
It was beautiful. It was absolutely stunning. It was as good as a flawless Ralph Lauren couture. In every sense.
It was fondant and custom figure and 3D and it probably had its own WiFi.
Of that cake, I have no picture. Pictures are for closers.
The game, ladies and gentlemen and those fluidly named and unnamed, goes to team dad. And step-mom.
And that’s ok.
A third grader got two pretty fantastic birthday cakes. Because he has two people who love him. We had snacks together tonight. Kid. Mom. Dad. Just the three of us. To quietly enjoy the moment and remember it’s actually about more than cake. To do this, the ability to share that time together, is precious. I recognize that this gives him a giant, resounding privilege that many children don’t have. I see that and I am grateful beyond words. I’m doing my best work to be sure he sees and knows and appreciates that, too.
On that front, he also got to see women marching in Pittsburgh this weekend, and I made him listen. Because I want him to see and know and appreciate no just what goes into making a great cake, but what goes into making well a good mom and step-mom and dad and ally and decent human. All kinds of women and men. All kinds of cakes.
Yes. His mom “made” him a beautiful cake.
And yes, his dad and step-mom also made him a beautiful cake.
We should all want to make and do better.
This kid made us who we are and we struggle to be worthy. At home and beyond.
I forget. Every day. But I’ve been reminded lately, in both shouts and whispers, marches and tiptoes, that there are things that are worth that struggle.
I want to keep struggling.
And I also want some cake.
Dark Yarn Productions 