Waiting for You
written June 2005

Your third birthday
is two days away.
I remember waiting for you.
Standing behind the desk at the library
I pressed the “Date Due” stamp to the inkpad with swollen fingers.

She’ll be here by then, I thought.

My body heavy, blurry, juicy, overripe,
all encompassing.
I shifted my weight back and forth.
Sliding books across the counter again and again.

Fascinated by yogurt lids and milk jugs
In awe of the “sell by” dates.
Waiting and walking.

She’ll be here by then, I thought.

The bones of my feet spreading
hips creaking open.
How did I not know you three years ago?
We were just about to meet.

Inhaling the purple of lilacs on my dresser,
watching them wilt.
Bottling homemade lemon soda in the kitchen,
listening to Johnny Cash.
Waiting and walking.

Always believing this breakfast
or this supper
was the last before
you came.
Maple sausages and raspberry waffles.

Finally, the midnight car ride under low rumbles of thunder.
I see the numbers of the clock glow on the dash.

The last time that time is time.

The last ride without you.
How was there a ride without you?
Or thunder without you?

She’ll be here.

Your third birthday is two days away.
I remember waiting for you.


Just Playing
July 2005

Today we played grocery store.

You chose cans and boxes from off the couch.
Put them in your basket
I, as cashier
rang them through
and asked for
“Ten dollars, please.”

You placed the invisible bill in my palm.
I gave you change
And imagined you carrying your bags out of the store
and
loading
them
into
your car.



Not to be used without written permission from the author.