I was sitting beside my mother on the couch,
knitting a blanket for my girl. My mother was
holding the yarn in her lap, a cloud of muted pinks.
Outside, the tall dry grasses were steeped
in golden evening light. A vireo rambled on
in its jumbled, warbly way. Mom talked
about her plans for dinner the next night
and I knit two, purled six, knit two, purled six.
She guided the soft wool through her fingers,
keeping just the right amount of slack. I felt
such a tide of love for her, I wanted to tell her
I’m sorry for every time I’ve been hardened,
sorry for every time I pushed her away
instead of pulling her close. I wanted to tell her
something loving beyond words, some
sentence true as the sweetness I felt today
sitting beside her in the grass in the sun while we
waited for a kingfisher or yellow warbler to fly across
the pond. But to name a feeling is so much harder
than naming a bird. So when the row was done, I
rested my head on her shoulder, closed my eyes
and nuzzled in. There was only softness in me then.
I’d like to think she translated what I meant. Just
as I knew what she was saying to me with each
unspooling of the yarn, I know how you love me.
I know your heart. I love you, too, my girl.
By the time we rose, we were held by the dark.
Even the swallows were quiet.