Before I rise, I realize
the cat has curled herself
into my side and my hand
floats to her slender spine.
So soft, she is, and I
remember how much
you loved everything soft—
blankets and stuffies,
pillows and clothes.
Remember how you begged me
for that plush purple owl?
And I remember how soft
your hair was, how soft
your skin, how soft
your heart even after
you learned to harden it.
I think of how
you come to me now
in feathers, in dreams,
in whispers. Oh world,
I want to beg, help me
stay soft. Like a fist
that, once stiffened,
remembers it can open.
Like a bird on a winter
morning, near frozen,
remembering not only
that it has wings, but
that it can fly.
Like your hands,
the day you were born.
Like your drowsy voice when,
before sleep, you’d murmur,
Love you, mama.
Sweet dreams.