Mother's Day

It’s mother’s day. In the kitchen, Daddy watches an egg sizzle. Don’t break the yolk. Libby butters a fork-cut everything bagel. Down the chain of command, Sarah and I fill the painted metal tray with a precariously full glass of orange juice (with pulp), bowl of rice krispies, mini pitcher of milk, and tiny sugar bowl. With Libby’s carefully crafted card (signed by us all) displayed, we tiptoe to the bedroom. Don’t drop the tray. Mommy shifts sleepy-eyed in bed, coos as she eats some of everything, and offers strips of bacon to her three smiling daughters...such a mother.

Bunk Beds

Assorted snores and hacks emanate from the lower bunks, masking the family's midnight footsteps as they climb the ladders to Squaw One’s upper bunks. After successfully avoiding the domino line of pill bottles, they sleep away their travels, while empty tummies and dry throats bemoan Mother's choice to bypass Safeway. Awakened by thirst, Sarah (traditionally a bottom bunk occupant) throws her legs over the bed’s edge, and drops five feet onto the creaking wooden floor. A congregation of nightgown-clad old women promptly gather around her to fret. Quelling concerns of broken bones, Sarah rejoins her still-warm blankets, thirsty as ever.

(Happy Birthday Sarah!)

Rescue Remedy

It was a natural stress reliever, meant to discreetly calm a middle-aged woman’s anxiety. Just two spritzes on the tongue, and all would be right with the world. Mother toted this “Rescue Remedy” about with her for a few days on the recommendation of one of her teacher-friends. Daddy thought it a silly trick of advertising, not something his wife ought to own. So, he read the label and let my mother, who has only ever drank as a courtesy to pushy hosts, know that her little spray bottle was not just flower petals and stardust, but also 27% alcohol.

Be my Light

Fresh cut grasses tease my thighs

as I kneel in darkness to pray

below the 10:20, cloud-thickened sky.

Casting off deliberate thought,

truer words thank Him

and ask Him to “be my light.”

Here, our starless night

betrays herself, allowing a lone star

to glimmer for me.

One mississippi two mississippi

And it hides anew.

Failed Neighborliness

It was a crumby van in handicapped parking, branded with “Need a Ride?” and a telephone number. Its driver’s finger fished for the latch, blindly trying to pop the hood to add coolant. As I passed with my canvas grocery bags, I offered help while silently trying to decide if I’d ever successfully opened my own car’s hood. After the woman engaged in some argumentative banter with her teenaged daughter, the latch was pronounced unopenable (her “redneck husband” had wired it shut). As she released me from my failed neighborliness, she thanked me.

“Oh, I didn’t do anything...”

“You cared.”

Poem of a Patriot

I am a Patriot

Not the red-white-blue-fourth-of-july kind,

But a believer

In country

and

In community

I don’t have a loud voice

But (like Sarah said) I’ve got life force

So I start small, filling my home

With babies and dogs,

With security, happiness, and beauty

Then, I’ll blend that recipe in you, my town

Starting with the young people

and asking them to care.

Doubt