Poetry Month – April 6


When the four-year-old boy got
The invitation from the soon-to-be five-year-old girl,
he walked outside to his father’s scrap wood pile
picked out two pieces of wood
small enough to fit in his hands but
large enough to be something
when nailed together
by his ‘but you might hurt yourself’ mom
which made him so mad he
Almost didn’t paint it
Almost didn’t go to the party
Almost didn’t give it to the birthday girl
Whose ‘but look what he made for you’ mom
Kept it all these years.


Motherhood. I seriously wonder how my mother lived through raising four daughters. I mean, worrying about their mortality every other minute is enough to bring you to your knees. Combine that low level anxiety with the preciousness of minutes, days, hours slipping away and the furious whiplash of their growing independence, it’s a wonder we don’t lose our minds because our hearts are completely given away. Which is why I held on to this little gem of a gift. To remember the sweetness, the intention, the effort, the innocence of love.