Freedom

Looking at the birds, 

fluttering around on a branch

overhead.

They are hopping on the ground,

beaks, pecking the pine needles

Expecting to find something

As I peck at the seemingly dry ground

I expect to find a drop of water

or a hidden cavern

leading to a new green pasture

The moment my beak hits the ground

The blue sky turns to billowing gray masses

covering any trace of warm, glowing sun

yet a drop of water hits the very spot

of dry, dusty earth

The drop, shaped like a tear

Reflects my face, 

My features become a misshapen oval head

and I sip the drop into my parched mouth

Another drop falls at my feet, and then I feel

a cool drop on my head, another on my back and 

moments later they begin rolling off my oily feathers

Soon I am standing in a small pool

Memory of dryness creeps into my thoughts

And the sun instantly bakes me into a crispy mess

like burnt bacon

I look up and see the birds on the branch

and remember that I must simply put

my beak to the dry ground.

I lower my head

In expectation of the rain

that will soon fall 

and quench my every need.

Chest pounding.
An ache that reminds me of getting run over by a car.
The tire tracks riding straight over my heart.

Remember the kisses on each eyelid, each cheek, then the chin, the forehead
sometimes the top of my head.

I love you all the way to the moon and back.
Now I know what that really means.
I'm on the moon, looking back.
And I peer in the window of our home
our  hearts
And I want to thank you for those hugs, and kisses
And the bedtime prayers

Thank you for bouncing the ball in the house
for leaving your shoes in the middle of the floor
for dropping your book bag in the kitchen

Thank you for taking out the trash
For doing your homework
Thank you for showing me your feelings
For telling me that you were sad, but you didn't know why

Thank you for touching my necklace
And asking me why people cry.

Thank you for riding circles around me on your bicycle
Thank you for letting me try to pitch 100 baseballs to you
in the pouring down rain on a fall day, in the dark
Because you wrote each of your spelling words, ten times.
And each word you put on the paper earned you a pitch from me
And when we got to the 67th pitch, you said,
"Let's go inside mamma. It's raining, and it's dark."

Right now, its raining  in my soul

And I pray the rain will help germinate
a small seed of hope
That will grow
And take the place of my loss

Swimming all day. Coming in exhausted. Eat dinner. Sleep. Repeat. Swim. With no particular destination. Just swim. Dive off the dock, into the murkey salty green water. Look at the little holes on the bottom. What's in the holes? I never found out. I swam. On my back, on my side, underwater, through the pilings of the docks. We got brave and took out the little sailboat. It was dangerous beyond description. No one had a clue how to sail. "Just pull up the sail, let the wind take you out, then turn around and come back in."  I didn't wear a life vest. Neither did anyone else. The boat turned over in the middle of the bayou. We laughed, jumped on the bottom of the boat and celebrated the upside down craft. Just enjoyed the day. The sunshine. We waved at shrimp boats, ski boats, deep sea fishing boats. We righted the boat and headed back to shore. I don't remember any of the conversation, just the feel of the wind, the sun and the houses on the shoreline. They looked so small. We couldn't see one human figure. I was eleven years old, and free. Fearless. Adventuresome. Life would never end. So I lived it fully. Came in sunburned. Tired. Hungry. Smiling. Laughing. Planning to sail out again tomorrow. And we did.

Giving birth. That won't be happening anymore. The reality that 'child bearing years are over' usually doesn't bother me. But once a month or so, I get a little sad about it. Today, I had a notion that I can find a new way to nurture young life. I can plant things, create little flower gardens in different places. Last night as I drifted to sleep I recalled my grandfather ambling up and down the rows of his vegetable garden. That is childbirth. Yes it is. He clipped his roses, as parent scolds his child, picks him up and sets him in the corner. When I marry again, one day, we will plant things, and watch them reach up towards the sun, and enjoy the tender little green arms. And smile when a flower opens. And cry when a bush explodes in color, like a child taking his first steps, or a first word spoken. We will water the plants, as a parent holds her breast to a baby. It won't be the same, but God knew what He was doing when he allowed a woman's body to end the life giving process. He knew that her energy and focus would change. That her muscles would ache after bringing in a few small grocery sacks...and her eyes wouldn't focus on close up objects...so He helped her out. I can enjoy mothering in a different way. Now, mothering myself first. And saying "no" to demands that aren't essential. My body says, "No," and while pangs of maternal drive sometimes push hard inside of me, I see the wisdom in some things coming to and end.

"Everything is temporary." This is a thought I cling to these days. I haven't written in several months. I write in my head, composing all types of essays about my life, and the emotions that rush through my veins and heart and make my fingertips tingle. Loss. That is what I have faced over and over and over and over this year. Loss. Just one loss. Followed by another. Not a greater loss. Just another one. A motorcycle crash. A suicide. And elderly woman's light finally fades out. My son leaves to go live with his dad. Then, a brutal beating, rape and murder of a 9 year old girl, who's older brother is my student. Some days my  heart feels like it is in a vice grip, twisting, turning, trying to escape the chest that contains it.  I listen to the same songs over and over again. Usher's "Numb." For a while, I think I"m listening to it because I like the  melody. After about the 7th viewing, I realize the images in the video reflect my year. Then, I hear myself singing the lyrics, and they touch a part of me that even I don't know exists. Numb. Is he telling me that I need to become numb to things that hurt me? The line about " I only trust in the things I feel, some may say that is strange. You better recognize what is real, because forever is a long, long, long, long, long, long, long, long time. Somethings never change, here we go again. Feel like I'm losing my mind, shake it off, let it go, I don't care anymore, just go numb." I have wanted to be numb. Then, I realized that part of me was numb. And I was glad, because that was what needed to happen. My evenings are long now. Interacting with one child instead of two or three, is not a change, it is an explosion of space. First I imploded. Everything I thought I was shifted. I'm not herding, or prodding, or coaching, or pushing or pulling, or stopping, or lifting like I used to. I can let my arms get weaker, that is what is supposed to happen now. The focus on the lens changed, I moved around to get clearer picture, but it stayed fuzzy. Parts of the picture are still out of focus, and I'm okay with a blurry picture right now.  The small part I see is this: Everything is important. I have recognized what is real, because now is forever, and forever is a long, long, long, long, long, long, long time.

What can I say?

I walk outside, the crisp air hits my face
the yellow leaves wave and some fall down
in a nice soft cascade
to cover the green carpet.

I sit in my cozy chair
But something pushes me up and out
and I end up walking back in the house

I love the fall, this air, the colors
Why am I inside?
I want to be outside
But I don't want to be outside.

It's such a beautiful day,
a beautiful moment
God's beauty all around me.
It fills me with hope and inspiration

But today, there is a GLARING
empty seat beside me.
I tell myself that I don't care anymore
That I am perfectly fine
living life as a single person.
I tell myself that
I am content this way.
And most of the time I am.

But today, I am not.
So I stay inside.

The quiet weekends

When my kids are gone.
I have to make myself shower.
It's like I'm in a dark, damp world
when my house is empty.
And I think my mind pushes me
to find that place in the physical world.
Water washes off that darkness
And then I feel like I've betrayed
my real self.


Single parenthood