The Mothers Are Close Now, As Always: A Poem for the Start of August
The mothers are close now, as always. They hover in the shadowed corners of our memories or at the edge of our sight, doing whatever they always do: bending over a garden, washing the dishes, hurrying to work, shouting at us through an open door, sitting still in the dawn's first light when they think we are asleep, looking at us or out the window. They smack at mosquitoes or flies, kneel to gaze at ant parades, gently release spiders through cracks in the screen. They gather shawls, jackets, magnifying glasses, snacks and swimming suits, clean socks.
Over and over, they say "that's enough" or "just a little longer" or "I can hardly believe it!" or "let's go have some fun," their voices merging like the monarchs among the purple coneflowers, wing atop wing, then rising, then spreading thin.
They hurry through their days, hardly looking our way, too busy, too busy. Or else they are right beside us, swimming the side stroke in the same waters, matching our pace, their eyes fixed on ours. They lie down when night comes to read us one story, two, three. Hours pass. When we finally fall asleep, they doze, turn in their half-sleep, touch our shoulders lightly before leaving our beds.
Over and over, we turn to our mothers and say, "here I am," or "slow down" or "look at how the weeping willow has grown" or "I love you."
The mothers are close now, as always, wanting to pull us onto their laps, or at least to touch our shoulders through whatever barriers exist: grief, rage, fear, time, distance, or the delicate, sheer barrier between this world and the next.
Over and over, they say "that's enough" or "just a little longer" or "I can hardly believe it!" or "let's go have some fun," their voices merging like the monarchs among the purple coneflowers, wing atop wing, then rising, then spreading thin.
They hurry through their days, hardly looking our way, too busy, too busy. Or else they are right beside us, swimming the side stroke in the same waters, matching our pace, their eyes fixed on ours. They lie down when night comes to read us one story, two, three. Hours pass. When we finally fall asleep, they doze, turn in their half-sleep, touch our shoulders lightly before leaving our beds.
Over and over, we turn to our mothers and say, "here I am," or "slow down" or "look at how the weeping willow has grown" or "I love you."
The mothers are close now, as always, wanting to pull us onto their laps, or at least to touch our shoulders through whatever barriers exist: grief, rage, fear, time, distance, or the delicate, sheer barrier between this world and the next.
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