The Mother Imagined as a Summer Home
1 Minute Read Time
As soon as the children are grown
I want to trash it, that is, myself:
how good and free it feels
to be extraneous, a disaster
again. The moment the children drive away
past the long whiskers of cholla plants
into the freezing darkness
I leave bread out, exit
the bathtub while the water runs.
Later my daughter calls
to give me advice or forgiveness,
my son to recommend an article
on minimalism—he who was once petrified
by mechanical cranks, ghosts, or the glass tiger
night-light that bloomed his shadow
into a bulbous monstrosity.
I imagine the holiday they come back
to be fed again, to watch me
read a book to the one grandchild
who wriggles like a glowworm on the lap
in this strange yet familiar home.
Children can be soothed only
by specific caresses in the right order,
by the right order of a handful of songs.
Holding the dribbling grandchild, I hum
It isn’t too cold to sit for a little in the garden, is it—
like a friendly apparition,
harmonium of her own comfort.
Read more from Issue 18.2.
