If only motivation’s power was always the same

as it is during that midnight countdown.

Instead, January’s days slide away,

those broken promises tumbling in their descent.

February dawns with resolutions yet unfulfilled.

But even on winter’s chilliest days,

if you stretch toward your vows,

you can touch them with the edge of your fingertips.

From time to time, she glances at the distant exit door

as her weary fingers make the repetitive stitches that dominate

her seventy-two factory hours.

From time to time, he glances at the distant trees

as his weathered hands reach toward the squash that is hidden in the earth

and his heart aches for home.

It became an undoable, laughable task

like lifting an ocean or dining on the moon.

Each day, I thought, would be The One.

But there was often somewhere to go

something to be done

OR

nothing to be done

nowhere to go. Just an inability.

Then this morning, before my piece of toast: I wrote.

The peaks stand evergreen behind a quiver of yellow aspens.

Infinite shades of brown decorate the lakebed, now beaded with puddles.

My son and husband chat behind me.

My daughter, solo, proceeds ahead.

Each step of mine is taken with gratitude.

The sky, a snowy veil touched with azure, presides over this ceremony of autumn.

Two decades + one year ago

on a brilliant Massachusetts evening

the clouds and humidity took a night off

and we said our vows.

Tonight, like so many others since,

we sit together.

Side by side.

I touch his arm.

He makes me laugh.

Simple moments in a complex life

are those most worth celebrating.

On Sunday, I woke up in a tent

to a chorus of cicadas in the pines.

Breakfast always tastes so much better

outside

on a picnic bench

in the first warmth of a morning

with the leftover smell of campfire smoke still in the air.

I sipped my coffee and watched sunlight dance on water.

14 school years.

Thousands of footsteps, back and forth.

Later walks were quieter…

As kids moved up

moved away

moved on.

Today we made our last trip home.

No more Arts Nights or Jog-a-Thons.

No more WWII Programs or “Wax” Museums.

Even as we say farewell,

I believe the ghosts of those footsteps will remain.

We met on my last day of chemotherapy.

Both mamas.

Both with recent surgeries

(we could never be new mamas again)

Her head lay upon her paws.

Her eyes looked straight into mine.

Six years later. Still, she sees me.

My dog, my companion, my friend.

I like to think that we rescued each other.

We move around each other, mostly.

But sometimes we hit head-on with

flashing eyes and clashing words, because of

secret tattoos

old-fashioned ideas

covert experimentation

embarrassing anecdotes

maddening indifference.

I remember when I was like her.

She imagines she will never be like me.

I treasure those times when we look toward the world,

together.

What wouldn’t I give for another afternoon

of “making” ice cream with

an upside-down bike

or an evening filled with American Girl doll sprawl,

or a recess tale that highlights the intricacies of

third-grade society?

As time turned, those latent years,

rich with delight and heartbreak,

passed like days.

And I struggle to say goodbye.

When exhaustion settled into my limbs like concrete,

I would think about how every human

was once a newborn taken care of by another.

Yet I cherished those weeks

when it was only the two of us…

we'd listen to the stillness of the night,

and watch the moon through the window,

cheek to cheek.

You awaken, after fourteen hours of restless sleep, lids heavy as stones.

Stomach queasy. Muscles frail. Brain fogged.

What sorrow there is in never seeing the shadowed face of your disease.

Your joy is always fleeting,

for time spent today is borrowed from tomorrow,

in an endless circle of debt.

Yet your beauty remains, unscathed.