My work

Two days ago, I read The Old Man and The Sea by Hemingway.  I understood the old man as I never did before.
Yesterday as I did my work, I noticed my head was remarkably quiet.  It used to be ON most of the time, thinking, feeling scared, trying to figure out or predict.  I can only attribute this peace to the fact that I do my work.

My work is to wipe boogers with any stray piece of cloth available from Beckam's nose as he races past me, sword in hand with no shirt.

My work is to write illegibly to everyone but myself...and sometimes even myself...because it is the only way to outrun the made-up stuff.

My work is to make coffee before anyone else in the house wakes up and to listen for my own voice.

My work is to kick Kit-the-cat off my bare toes in the kitchen before sunrise.

My work is to drive Sophie to school, to gymnastics, then home...and to always remember a snack which includes protein.

My work is to leave a canvas hanging by thumbtacks on the living room wall, and to lay paint until it is finished.

My work is to hear my husband's exasperated sigh and to kiss him anyway.

My work is never to loose my wedding ring, and to remember when I couldn't stop staring at it.  I scrubbed it with a toothbrush in the shower so it would sparkle.

My work is to convince my weeping Pepper that she really will be brave enough to get her ears pierced by the time she turns 10 years old, and no they don't really give you a free teddy bear.  It only hurts for a second.  (I need Sophie's help on this one.)

My work is to sing Beckam "I am a Child of God" every night while smoothing fine red hairs from his wide forehead.

My work is to let Pepper paint with my favorite brushes every time she asks.

My work is to hang her pictures in the kitchen from the wire strung along the back wall designated for Kid Art.

My work is to sneak out of the house when no one is looking and run 3 miles into twilight and old songs.

My work is to call high school friends on their birthday and sing stupid songs into their voicemail.

My work is to stay up past my bedtime with Andrew while he takes a bath after a long work day.
It is to watch him in his soapy ritual and to love the way he washes his hair twice with eyes closed and bubbles sliding down his face.

It is my work not to leave him not with my body or with my heart or my actions...big or small.

It is my work to take leftover slices of time and turn them into art.

It is my work to invite little Beach over every Tuesday for art class.  It is to leave her alone without trying to make her paintings my paintings.

My work is to say all the embarrassing stories out loud so the are not embarrassing anymore.

It is my work to pick up the towels that no one hangs on the rack in the bathroom.

My work is an ocean and when it is too big, I dive beneath the waves to where it is quiet.

When I Was a Mermaid

When I was a mermaid
I was never cold
I laid on the hot cement until my fingers were fat grapes again.

When I was a mermaid
I lassoed my feet together with old jump ropes and sashes from church dresses
In my newly tied tail I curled all the way across Miriam's backyard pool
We shouted to each other, dialogue from our dreams, surrounded by thick green trees in another world

Everyone told me I would drown if I swam with my feet tied together.
I knew I wouldn't drown
My arms are strong and I can swim forever

When I was a mermaid
I opened my eyes under water and always won the swimming pool games
Marco Polo and Colors
I wasn't afraid of the chlorine
I let it burn my eyes and turn my hair green
Because somewhere I knew, childhood summer doesn't last forever.

When I was a mermaid
I never wore sunblock
I liked the deep burn on my shoulders and the invincible armor of tanned skin

When I was a mermaid
I was in harmony with the quiet under water
It matched the stillness in my belly right before I'd fall asleep
All of my muscles exhaling sighs of thanks for their exhaustion
I felt no obligation to fill this space nor leave it.

When I was a mermaid
I loved to eat cold, sweet watermelon

When I was a mermaid
I moved to Utah, to the desert, to the snow,
to an unfriendly climate for a mermaid.

When I was a mermaid in Utah
I shivered in my sweater
I stared, puzzled at a red plastic sled
I wanted to go home

Then I discovered Lake Powell in the desert
Fins splayed out from my feet
Sun sprinkled from my finger tips, and I swam
I vaulted from the water onto crimson sandstone
I came home to the hot ground

Now my children are mermaids
Beneath the water, I know, Pepper sees fairies.
As babies I threw them into the water before they could fear it.
I let them feel how she will hold you, how a body knows what to do.
Now my children are mermaids.

For this I will always get my hair wet
I will always wear a swimming suit to the pool

When I was a mermaid
I watched the brown walrus adults in their lawn chairs eating salty chips
They talked about boring stuff and their lips were blubbery

When I was a mermaid
I shouted to the adult walruses:
"WATCH MY TRICK!"

I cartwheeled off the diving board, toes pointed, into a perfect pencil
Hardly a splash...
I sunk all the way down to the bottom
I laid my belly against the grainy pool cement
That's where I learned to breath under water.

When I was a mermaid
I understood a lot of things my kids understand now
And we never bring towels to the pool
We lay on the baked ground
Our butts all in a row, a family of land fish

My Family of Mermaids 2014

Milk spots

Danielle has a new baby.  When she wakes up in the morning the mattress has wet circles where her nipple pressed it's sweet, hot juice into the fabric.
My mattress has these circles too but they dried up 2 years ago.
I could almost cry at this desert upon which I sleep.
When my breasts began receding back into my chest, I thought I'd be happy.  I thought I'd be free of their weight and obligation to lie down in submission every 2-4 hours.
But I wasn't.

Happy was not the feeling.  Free was not the feeling.  It was only less.  I felt like less.
As if my children had just shown up for dinner and then hurried out to the driveway to their scooters and skateboards and chalk and legs walking.

Now when I put on my bra, I lift up the loose flap which used to be a breast. I set it into the pocket of my bra, just like my Mom used to do.  She nursed 6 babies.
I used to watch her do that and think it was sad.  Her bras were old and thin and hardly necessary.
They were a pale dingy pink with worn down lace.

She had a boob job when I was twelve.
I remember her coming home dazed and eyes half-shut.
She was standing in front of the mirror with her shirt off.
Two bulbs as big as ripe cantaloupes pushed against her red skin.
I thought they might right through her skin, they looked so unnatural, so angry.
She looked baffled at how the got there,  I was too.

My Dad hurried her off into the bedroom and I heard her crying.
Shortly after that she started drinking.
I didn't know that though.  I only knew that she was mad a lot, and gone a lot and I liked it when she was gone.
Shortly after that, she was gone for good.

I didn't miss her though.  She had become bitter like a cucumber left on the vine too long.
She was no longer the mother who sang me primary songs in her timid, wavering and perfect voice.
The one who traced a path along my cheek, through the channel of my nose and upper lip and up over the crest of my forehead.
She went to that plastic surgeon and held out the skin which used to be breasts and told him,
"Fill me up."
That's exactly what she said:  Fill me up.
How could he?  How could he give her back all that she had lost?
How could they know what she was really missing?

I liked it better when she delicately lifted the empty spot and laid it into her bra.
There was an integrity in that gesture, and I intend to keep it.
So although I am now a little bit less, the part I gave away is still out there.
It is riding bikes in the sunny driveway.
It is breathing steady in the next room the wide breath of dreams.
It is taking a bold tumbling pass with 12 year old muscles that I started from scratch.
It is devouring books with eyes that see more than they understand.

My mother visits often.  To a large degree I have lived her life, and I do not fault her for scrambling to fill a space that is endless.  A mother's heartbreak is constant.  It rests along the edges of every precious moment.  It is the knowing that we do not get to keep any of it.