The Spread

I have crossed a bridge
you cannot
(I was almost like you).

No longer united,
we find ways to weave
a common bond.

Yet, more often now,
your words vibrate
too derisive.

In those moments I
contemplate how easy
it would be to let
our relationship
canyon.

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The Best Moment of My Day

It is 4:30 am.

By some glorious miracle

you have just slept

Ten

Hours

Straight.

I pick you up –

trade a change and feed

to snuggle in the glider

(I hope it works).

You squirm

and

wiggle;

I worry

you are getting too big

for this. Or too hungry.

With a final flail

you settle at my shoulder,

your head just below my chin.

We doze together,

your tiny breathy puffs

lingering on my cheek.

Stolen Serenity

Over the din of dinner prep, I hear it –

a low, rhythmic hum directly above.

Dad is singing you to sleep.

I pause my

manic rush to get food ready.

Zucchini sizzles

in the pan but I ignore it.

This moment has become

his song,

you nestled

against his chest,

eased

by the timbre of his voice.

In the chaos of rushed evenings,

this is serenity.

Makeover

On the cusp of fifteen,

I sat in the lounger,

the boys piled around me.

We sucked down Freezies

and watched King of the Hill.

At one point my attention strayed

to the two of you preparing to paint,

laying down tape and holding up

color swatches.

Later, the boys long asleep,

you painted the wall apple red

And I thought I wanted to have a family

just

like

yours.

P.L.

You were on the brink –

almost not a teen, but not quite an adult.

Head propped in your hands,

I fed you rice from my plate

and

swelled at your (hidden) soft heart.

Years later, I watch you interact with my son,

soft hands guiding him as you ask

about his favorite toy

and

walk like a penguin to get him to laugh.

When I come down from putting him to bed,

you’ve already cleaned up his toys.

That soft heart endures.