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.

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.

Mémère

I see you in the blossoms that brighten the spring trees.

Grandma

I try to open my heart to others, as you did.

Pépère

I salute whenever I watch an eagle take flight.

Grandpa

I hear your laugh as though we joked only yesterday.

The time without you lengthens,

but you are always near.

A small blade of time

is all that separates

life from afterlife,

a kind heart from a jaded one.

A bit of genetics

is all that separates

a clover with three leaves or four,

a cell which functions

and one that doesn’t.

A slight twist of circumstance

can be all that separates

joy from sorrow.

Flashbacks of a 4th Grade insect lesson

as I peered through my otoscope:

head, thorax, abdomen.

A few drops of alcohol to the patient’s ear.

The critter ran out, down the side of her face,

and onto the floor.

Her mom and sisters shrieked.

I squashed it with my heel.

Not my first cockroach rodeo.

The Final Cut

Her last wish was donation, in the form of teaching.

Would he be so selfless, at his end?

They cut her skin,

examined her muscles,

followed the delicate threads of her nerves,

so that one day they might understand, investigate, diagnosis.

He turned away from her filed nails and curled hair,

to honor her sacrifice.

In the clinic, I hear the story: PHQ high, cuts to the wrist, just not fitting in.
But she is not
mine. Mine
curls up with me in the bed.

Her scars are warm, her hair is soft.Her heart beats against my chest—
no stethoscope needed.

All I know to do is hold tight.

I successfully extracted the peanut M&M from his 4-year-old nose.

It was green.

“Thank you!” Mom said. The patient giggled.

I stood to leave.

Dad stared at his hands. “I didn’t believe it would fit,” he said. “So I tried, too.”

The second extraction of the night? A green peanut M&M.

Like son, like father.

Air cool, coffee cold, walking up hill.

Thinking of sick babies and tearful parents

I pick apart my decisions, one by one.

Saturday afternoon awaits: carpools, laundry, school projects.

In-between: a mountainside covered with yellow grass that flows like ocean water.

I should stop, breathe, watch.

Instead, I hurry from one task, to the next.