this boy’s nose
i know you are there to hold my grief when i talk about missing my mom’s strong and manicured hands, cold and six feet under
even though it’s been 975 days, if i say i’m sad, you’ll get it
plus, you knew her, and sometimes you miss her, too
it might be harder for you to understand when i get lost in the silky cerulean housecoat and turpentine pinch in my nose sitting there on my granma’s lap as she cleans her horse hair paint brushes. that was 15,220 days ago. no one alive today knew her but me. so there’s that. but still, you get grief over a suddenly dead-in-the-street grandparent, even if it did happen over 40 years ago
on anniversaries, you are patient as i cry over stuart and oma and julia and brigitte and janet and diane
you have your anniversaries, too
10,345 days. 8,896 days. 5,345 days. 1,413 days. 975 days. 315 days ago
you are there when i remember the blood and tissue and pain pouring out of me 7,454 days ago; they would have been your eldest, too
you sorta wanna kinda get when my self-worth is down for a moment because of a long-ago heartbreak where he chose her, not me. we all have those fleeting moments when 10,360 days ago seems like yesterday
you feel for me as i stagger homeward under the weight of despondency, another viewing for a patient. she found some tiny little specs of mere dust that might offer some temporary relief. little did she know, it offered permanent relief.
there is no ago for this one.
but for you, it’s your care for me, not for her, that makes you soft as i approach. you have never known someone who went this particular way
can you feel it? you are slowly getting more remote as i navigate my heart’s aches. not for lack of caring but because you have only so much capacity
so, who is going to bear witness to my loss today? who can know the piercing tartness of this moment? no one has died today; there has been no intentional betrayal
today, i sit and mourn a giving that i am no longer able to give, a caring i am no longer able to achieve, a protection i can no longer offer
his hands are man hands now, rough and capable. his vertebrae and skull hold his head six feet, one and one-quarter inch up in the air
his brain is blazing; his tongue is snarky and uncompromising. his heart is steeled against his originator
when was the last time he sat in my lap? why did i not mark that day?
what is the anniversary of the last time he nuzzled into my shoulder to weep?
when did he last accept support without feeling threatened?
when was the last time he felt assured that he would always be safe, here, in my arms?
can you be with me during this grieving?
no?
no time?
too maudlin?
too precious?
more relevant disasters needing your attention?
i agree. move on. nothing to see here…
…except for that caramel constellation of freckles on his nose
i still get to be the one who notices those as he unbuckles at morning drop-off. who appreciates
that poreless face, with those fragile beads of sweat after running, spinning, bouncing, kicking
the speckled irises beaming eagerly past me to the next download, update, or 2.0
i still get to be the one who laughs till they pee in their pants at
his sideways humor, emerging only when he finally eats something more substantial than flaming hot chips
who else knows or cares that
he prefers chinos to jeans?
who else is remembering today
that sketched portrait of Matthew Henson showing us we have more than one artist in the house?
who wants to dig out
that short horror story he scribbled, reminding us that writing is apparently a family feature?
i get to be the one who will be forever chastised by
his tender heart
for choosing Hachi for family movie night. he is keeping resentful track of that tearful snuggle 4,150 days ago
so, when you see me today, now you know
it was 0 days ago that i missed my little boy and felt some sorta way.
it was 0 moments ago, out of heart necessity, that i quieted into new ways of being
in his midst
