I am again in a small blue room
with the bedroom windows open wide
and the breeze is alive in the thin
white curtains and the boy in the crib
doesn’t cry as he lies on his back
and my eyes are closed as I try
to be boring so he will sleep.
The music on the radio is smooth
and full, soothing and warm.
I had never heard slack key before.
Eighteen years later, it is easy
to feel the sweetness of those shaded
hours in a way I couldn’t then.
But I do not chastise that younger self
for not perceiving beauty. She was
tired. And hurting. A gaping wound.
I don’t lecture her about how
she should be better. I just hum
to the music now familiar and love her.
The notes shimmer like forgiveness in the air.