I’ve been passing by for years on my daily runs,
littering my path like benign grenades.
To me
they’d seemed like nothing more
than sprained ankles waiting to happen.
AND THAT’S WHEN IT DAWNS ON ME
That sometimes,
when you
stop
and take a look around,
when you pause
for a moment
and look again,
through a whole new lens,
at what you’ve been looking at all your life,
you’re able to see for the first time
the things you’ve been
taking for granted…
Which is when
I decide
that from now on
even if
I don’t feel like going
to the party,
especially if
I don’t feel like going
to the party,
I will
always go
to the party.
SAFE AND SOUND?
Now that my mother is off of steroids
and done with rehab and out of the hospital,
she’s living at home.
Alone.
I’ve tried to convince her
to come to California and live with us.
But she says fish and visitors
stink after three days.
And besides,
she’d miss her house,
and her friends,
and raking the leaves.
I’ve tried to convince her to let me find
someone to move in with her and look after her.
But she says she likes her privacy;
says she doesn’t need any looking after.
And no matter how much I wheedle
and threaten, no matter how much I insist,
she refuses to wear
the emergency necklace I gave her—
the one with the button on it
that she can press to summon help
in case she ever falls down again
and can’t get back up.
“That thing gets in my way,” she grouses.
“It’s ugly. It makes me feel
like a helpless old woman.
And I may be old, but I am not helpless.”
So I call her every day
to make sure she’s okay.
And most of the time she’s perfectly fine,
her wit sharper than a paper cut.
Sometimes, though,
there almost seems to be
a suspicious frost in her tone,
as though she’s not quite sure
I am who I say I am.
TODAY, WHEN I CALL
My mother doesn’t answer.
I tell myself she’s probably
just taking a nap.
But fear’s icy fingers
grab my throat
and won’t let go.
I finally call
her next-door neighbor Eric
and beg him to knock on her door.
Then, I stand here waiting—
with my eyes shut tight,
and the phone nearly crushing my ear,
trying
very hard
not to imagine
my mother’s corpse.
DURING THE HELL THAT FREEZES OVER
Before Eric
saunters back onto the line
and informs me
that my mother’s fine,
I promise God
that if he lets my mother live
I will finish writing
my book.
I’VE BEEN WORKING DAY AND NIGHT
Sequestering myself in my office
with Secret purring in my lap,
only emerging
for meals.
Michael’s been great about
not interrupting me.
He’s even been cooking
and doing all the errands
and fielding calls
from Roxie.
I’ve been so totally focused
on my manuscript
that when my mother calls
to ask me what I want for my birthday
she catches me by surprise.
“My birthday…?” I say.
“It’s next week, dear. Had you forgotten?”
“Wow…I guess I had…”
Last year,
my birthday loomed over me
like a vulture waiting
to pick my bones clean.
But this year, I hadn’t even
noticed it was coming.
“So tell me what you’d like,” she says.
“What have you been wishing for?”
“Oh, I don’t know, Mom.
I don’t really need anything…”
But then it hits me,
in one of those blinding flashes.
“Actually, Mom,” I say, “there is
something I’ve been wishing for.”
Then I pause for effect.
“Well? What is it, Holly?”
“I’ve been wishing you’d wear
that emergency necklace I got you.”
There’s a silence
on the other end of the line.
Then
I hear a deep sigh.
“Darling,” my mother says, “are you sure
you wouldn’t rather have a Mercedes?”
I crack up.
“I’m sure, Mom.”
“Then I’ll wear your damn necklace.
But not when my beau comes over.”
“Your beau…?!” I say.
“You’ve got a beau?”
“Why yes, dear…Eric—from next door.
He’s a lovely man.”
My heart dances a little jig in my chest.
“That’s incredible, Mom. I’m so happy for you!”
“I’m sort of robbing the cradle…” she confides.
“He’s only seventy-five.”
And both of us burst out laughing,
as a river of relief flows through me.
IT HAPPENS FOR THE ZILLIONTH TIME ON THE EVE OF MY FIFTY-FIRST BIRTHDAY
I wake up drenched
at 3 a.m.,
thinking,
Oh, no…not again…
Wrestling with my blanket
like a rabid beast,
writhing
in tangled smoking sheets,
I keep on reminding
myself while I thrash:
no one ever died
of a hot flash.
I SHOVE OPEN THE FRENCH DOORS
And rush out of the bedroom
into the luscious cool of the October night
and—ahhhhhh…
I spread my arms wide,
letting the chilly air envelop me…
And that’s when I hear it—
Clementine’s shrill cry,
piercing the stillness
like a siren.
How well I remember that newborn bleat—
the way it gripped me,
rattled me, possessed me
till I somehow managed
to figure out what is was
that Samantha wanted…
I’d forgotten how it felt
to be woken up every two hours,
every single night…
I’d forgotten how it felt
to be so sleep-deprived that I
brushed my teeth with Michael’s hair gel…
so exhausted
that my eyes felt like they were
sinking into my head…
so out-of-it
that I couldn’t even form
a sentence…
And suddenly,
I reach an astounding conclusion:
I am glad…no—
I am positively delighted
that my baby-making days
&n
bsp; are over!
ON MY BIRTHDAY
Michael and I spend the morning
digging a hole
where our tree once stood.
Then, together,
we plant a new one—
a ginkgo tree.
We chose the ginkgo
because it’s highly resistant
to root rot.
And because
we fell in love
with its fan-shaped leaves
which, at this time of year, turn a golden yellow
and shimmer on their branches
like flocks of buttery moths.
Some say
the seed of the ginkgo tree
is an aphrodisiac.
Some claim
it helps ward off memory loss
and dementia.
Some consider ginkgo trees,
which have been around for 270 million years,
to be “living fossils.”
When I tell
Samantha this,
she says, “Just like you!”
LATER ON
After Michael has presented me
with a beautiful painting of Samantha,
and cooked me an exquisite lunch,
I head over to Jane’s with some cake.
Even before the door swings open
I can hear the chaos within—Pinkie yapping,
Madison throwing a whopper of a tantrum,
the baby howling its head off.
Jane greets me, bleary-eyed,
with her frenzied babe in her arms,
a half-hearted smile on her face.
“It’s my birthday,” I say, offering the cake.
She invites me in, murmuring apologies
for the noise and for the state of her kitchen.
“Don’t be silly,” I say.
“You’ve got both hands full!”
I walk over to the shrieking Madison
and kneel down in front of her.
“I’ve brought some birthday cake,” I say.
She eyes the plate and stops bawling.
“Babies can’t eat cake,” I say.
“But big girls can. Would you like some?”
Madison wipes her dripping nose
on the back of her hand and nods solemnly.
“I want da piece wit da rose,” she sniffs.
I find a fork and settle her at the kitchen table.
Next, I turn my attention to Jane and the baby,
who’s still screaming bloody murder.
“Can I hold her for a minute?” I ask.
Without a moment’s hesitation,
Jane pops her infant into my arms
and flops down onto the couch.
And because,
unlike Jane,
I’m not tense and worn out and frazzled—
Clementine hushes instantly.
I rock her in my arms,
gazing into her calm eyes,
feeling the strength of her tiny fingers
hanging on to my thumb,
and decide, then and there,
that from now on I’ll be coming over here
to hold this child for Jane
at least once a day.
That should satisfy me
until I become a grandmother.
Which, God willing,
won’t be anytime soon.
CULTURE SHOCK
Samantha just emailed me a link
to an amazing article about
a recently discovered ancient African tribe
called the Mamalasu,
which, until six months ago,
had been hidden away in the misted depths
of a lush ferned forest
somewhere in Eastern Gabon.
Anthropologists have learned
that the Mamalasu men
believe wrinkles are the sacred handprints
of the gods of good fortune—
so the older and more lined
a Mamalasu woman becomes
the more she is desired
by the men in the village.
The more her breasts sag—
a symbol of her gaining
the supreme wisdom
of the all-knowing ancestors—
the more the men of the tribe
yearn to lie with her beneath the dappled light
of the Moon Mother, while the talking drums
beat their chants into the night.
The young men especially,
their bodies toned and sleek
from the many hours
they spend hunting for food,
to couple with these women,
whose white hair is thought to be a sign
of the soul’s deepest enlightenment.
They run their fingertips
over the shrunken bellies
of these old women,
and are said to feel a stirring in their loins
so powerfully charged
with the animal spirit
that they are often overcome
with unbridled lust…
Is it
any wonder
I am thinking
of moving there?
AW, COME ON
You knew I was kidding, right?
That I made that whole Mamalasu thing up?
But you found it surprisingly simple
to suspend your disbelief, didn’t you?
Well, to tell you the truth, so did I.
Even while I was inventing them.
But each of us believes
what we want to believe.
So let’s choose to believe
that the Mamalasu are real.
And, then,
let’s take it a step further—
let’s allow ourselves to believe
that we are Mamalasu women
and that our husbands and lovers
are Mamalasu men.
From this day forth,
let’s think of our aging bodies
as temples
of ever-increasing desirability.
IN THE MAIL
A first
in the annals
of college history:
the freshman
sends a care package
to the parents!
We open the box and find a plastic bag
filled with oak leaves—
fiery gold, crimson, and amber.
We dig deeper and discover
two matching hooded sweatshirts,
emblazoned with the name of Samantha’s school,
plus some dark chocolates for Michael,
some caramels for me,
and some catnip for Secret.
And,
at the very bottom of the box,
there’s a photo of our daughter—
cheek to cheek with Monkey,
both of them grinning
their goofiest grins.
I reach in,
lift out the photo,
and press it to my heart.
IS IT A GOOD SIGN?
Is it a good sign if you find
that you’ve lost interest in looking up
all your old boyfriends on Facebook?
And that instead of getting pissed off
when you’re offered the senior discount,
you’re happy to save a few bucks?
And that, these days, you don’t even have to
come face to face with your own mortality
before you’ll sit down and write?
Is it a good sign if, now and then,
when you think about your mother,
you feel strangely at peace?
And that if you hear the neighbor’s daughter
singing “Now I Know My ABCs”
you feel only the slightest twinge?
And that instead of feeling the need
to write yet another “bad sign” poem,
you find yourself writing
this poem?
NOSTALGIA
All of us
were young once.
And for each of us
there was a certain afternoon.
An afternoon when we were
as beautiful as we’d ever been,
as beautiful
as we’d ever get—
and not one of us
knew that it was happening.
All of us
are older now.
And for each of us
there will be a certain afternoon.
An afternoon
when we will pass by a mirror
and see that the last bit of youthful beauty