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Posts Tagged ‘missing’

May 4, 2022

It wasn’t that anything special happened today.
No holiday. No giant rainbow. No astonishment
of bloom. Though in years past we would have said,
May the Fourth be with you.
It wasn’t that I made an extraordinary meal,
though you did love the thin-sliced roasted potatoes
I made tonight, and they did turn out good,
slightly bubbled and browned.
It wasn’t that there was a bobcat on the porch.
And the morels aren’t out just yet.
And Mother’s Day is not until this weekend.
But I missed you. I missed you not because it was
the first May 4 since you were gone, I missed you
simply because you are gone. Sometimes,
getting through any ordinary day
is like trying to play Scrabble alone.
It’s like singing a lullaby to an empty bed.
It’s like not making your lunch.
It’s like not worrying how you’re doing.
It’s like lighting a candle and letting it burn to the end.

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Missing My Father



When you miss him, look inside.
            —Deb Stevens, private correspondence


Today when I miss my father,
I hear him in my voice when I say,
You’ll go broke saving money.
I feel his tenderness in the way
I hold my own daughter’s hand.
His laugh blooms inside my laugh
when I giggle hee hee hee.
Here he is, ever inside me.
Returning home from his death,
I feel transformed,
or is it I feel more me—
the me he helped to shape
with his life, the me
he is fashioning with his death,
the me I’m still learning how to be.

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scent of sweet clover—

wishing I could send it to you

send you, too,

this woman

alone in a field

surrounded

by sweet clover,

her head tipping back

in ecstasy

where the cup your hand

could be.

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One Thanksgiving

 

 

 

for those not around

the table, setting

a place in the heart

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empty space

at the dinner table—

a flower without its petals

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In the empty kitchen I read

your letter out loud,

try to speak in your tones

as if I might trick my ears,

but there are too many waves

in my voice, I can hardly keep my head

above the water, they are deep

the tides between here and there.

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unable to form
the sweet dough in my hands
without hearing the echo
of her hymn as she sings
a thousand miles away

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Using the Last Bit of Red Onion Left by Rachel

Lost for weeks in the corner of the crisper drawer,
it appears just in time to save the carrot soup.

One large hunk of red onion, partially used, still good.
I get nostalgic, remembering how Rachel, gone for three weeks,

served it with eggs, and though I didn’t eat them
I remember how delicious the kitchen smelled then.

It is her hand that chose it, her hand that sliced the rings.
I laugh at my own nostalgia. But I miss her, the all of her,

the giggling on the couch with her, the singing in the car,
cayenne and hot chocolate late night, poems, wine.

And slicing the onion, thinking about how Rachel she is,
it is right somehow that I should start to cry.

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