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Posts Tagged ‘daughter’

Kinship


                  after Jane Hirshfield
 
 
Oh look, I say to the cat
You have a soup belly. 
I jiggle and wiggle her soft, floppy middle.
She does not love it.
I get it, I say to her. Sometimes
I don’t want to be touched either.
More truly, I do want to be touched, 
but only in the way I want to be touched. 
The cat holds her paws midair, frozen there, 
as if not yet sure if to attack or relax.
She chooses relax. I choose 
to massage between her ears.
She nuzzles her small skull into my palm.
I know, I say to the cat. I miss her, too. 
We both know she’d rather be with my daughter.
We both feel the absence here. 
We sit a long time like this, the cat nuzzling, 
me dragging my fingertips forward and back, 
forward and back.
With her body, she shows me
just where and how much to touch her.
When I move to rise, she lashes out with a claw 
to keep me in place beside her.
In this way, I study my life. 
How to hold. How to let go. 
Loneliness wears a haunting perfume,
resinous, sweet, full of laughter
and silence. What a gift, I say to the cat, 
to miss her together. 
I cross the room. The cat follows to where I sit next. 
Later, she leads me to her bowl. I follow. 

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for Vivian on her 18th birthday
 
 
like six thousand five hundred seventy notes 
springing out of the steps of the scales
into new surprising arrangements
she is becoming 
her own ecstatic soundtrack

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Dad would lie on his back
in the middle of the living room.
I would step into his open palms
on either side of his shoulders
and slowly, he’d lift me into the air.
I loved the wavering, the bobble 
before the balance, the moments 
of freedom when I floated above him. 
Today, when the concert ended 
with “What a Wonderful World,” 
it was only in the last verse I realized 
they’d played Dad’s favorite song
on this day, his birthday, almost
five years after his death, and 
I felt it again, that sense of being 
elevated by a power greater than my own.
Tears falling even as I started
to laugh. Laughter rising even
as I started to cry. The gift of it all
swirling in me as ecstatic as the violins,
primal and playful as the drum beat, 
unexpected as the riffs on the piano, 
familiar as my dad’s hands wrapped
around my soles pressing me higher, 
oh wonderful world, higher.

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Sending Love


                  for my daughter
 
 
When you were a girl 
and you’d leave for camp,
I would talk to you 
through the sky,
whispering through
blue and star-dappled 
dark. The message
was always the same: 
I love you. I hope you 
are happy. I want to gather
you a jar full of sky
so wherever you are
you can put your ear
to it and hear those simple
words translated into starlight
and sunset, cumulous
and cirrus. Sometimes 
it’s easier to trust what 
we can hold in our hands. 
But if you ever spilled
the contents of the jar, 
the love would be no less
present. In fact, you could
hold the empty glass 
to your chest and feel
how love is as uncontainable 
as wind, as insistent as thunder,
as everywhere as air. 
 

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I was sitting beside my mother on the couch,
knitting a blanket for my girl. My mother held
the yarn in her lap, a cloud of muted pinks. 
Outside, the tall dry grasses weaved 
in golden evening light. A Western Warbling Vireo 
rambled on in its jumbled, warbly way. Mom spoke 
of 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. Wanted to tell her 
I’m sorry for every time I’ve been hardened, 
every time I’ve pushed her away instead 
of pulling her close. I wanted to whisper
the love beyond words, some sentence true 
as the sweetness I felt today sitting beside her 
in the sun in the grass while we waited 
for a Belted Kingfisher or Northern 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 length of unspooling 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.

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sitting on the couch, 
our bodies lean into each other—
two aspen trees, shared roots

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for Vivian
 
Already she knows terrible things happen. 
Already she knows the pleasure of scrambling
in the woods at night with friends and singing
too loud and making bad choices that are sometimes
exactly the right choices. She knows sobs and 
silliness. She knows how much humans can hurt
each other. She knows how a touch or a tender
word erases nothing but creates its own plot of trust. 
 
There was a time when my job was to protect her,
filling her pages with beauty and courage and honesty.
Now my job is mostly to love her, to give her her own pen. 
Because terrible things happen. And she is the one now 
who shapes her story. Every writer knows, we write 
what we know—and what we can’t ever know. 
I pray what emerges is the impossible—an irrational,
deep rooted love for this difficult, glorious world. 

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What Goes On


Knowing it will grow back tomorrow
does not stop me from pulling
the bindweed today. Once I pulled 
bindweed as if the goal was to clear it 
from the garden. Now, I pull bindweed 
as if the goal is to love this act of being 
alive, this ritual of pulling bindweed, my 
daughter beside me, soft easy chatter 
rising between us.        There is no blessing 
or disaster yet that has ended this 
communion of tugging on the long white 
roots. Somehow, in this season of 
endings, the bindweed seems to promise
tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow. 
 

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That’s how many school lunches
I’ve made her, more or less, since
that first day she held my hand and we 
stood on the grass outside the elementary school
before the first bell rang. Her hair was blonde then, 
mine not gray. I’m not crying as I make her
lunch this morning. Dilled bean and rice salad. 
Fresh blackberries. Pretzel sticks. 
Honeycrisp apples sliced into thin rounds
that her friends call “floppy apples.”
Maybe I’m crying. 
Me and all the other mothers on the last
day of the last year of school. Thinking of
two thousand three hundred forty bleary mornings
when I woke to pour love into plastic containers
along with dried mango and tofu cubes,
seaweed strips and yogurt tubes.
Okay. So I’m crying. I nibble the squared off core 
of the apple to gather every last bit of sweetness.
When it’s gone, I lick the stickiness from my fingers.

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More flowing than walking
she moves down the street,
her green dress billowing,
her shoulders bare.
Sometimes the world 
asks us to do impossible math—
for instance to add more love 
when already we are filled to capacity
with love. And again tonight, I meet it,
the impossible. 

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