Confessions of a Transplant: Hiding

Sometime I think I’m stealing away from the world. Some time I think I’m stealing myself against my world. But really I’m just hiding from myself.

Thank You, Mr. President

“I am straight but not narrow” is a button I used have and wore on my denim jacket.  For Mother’s Day, I am reposting this. . .why?  Because when I had my son 31 years ago, I was called an ‘unwed mother’ and ‘give the baby up because children need two parents to be normal’ and ‘you can’t do this’. . . and while I love my parents, they were wrong.

I stood my ground and raised my son and like all of us, we bumbled along with joys and sadness, fights and delights, and love. And now he’s a dad, working from home, doing that balance with a very busy toddler.

 

Thank You, Mr. President.

Confessions of a Transplant: I am a MeMe

Confessions of a Transplant: I am a MeMe.

Confessions of a Transplant: I am a MeMe

About a year ago I wrote on how the first grand child is the one to name you. I go by Ammi, so I started with Grammi.

The eighteen-month-old boy calls me Meme (Mee Mee). And then shakes his head just a little so he can see my mop of hair move. While on the changing table, if I lean over, he takes a small fistful and tickles his own nose with my hair.

And smile, giggles and wiggles and his Dad, my son gets a bit frustrated because getting a diaper on a wiggle-butt is challenging enough.

The Transplant who has become accustomed to more sunlight that New England has provided over the last ten days, loves the puddle splashing, the rock finding and then tossing and the little hand that takes mine when we walk.

Like me, he loves a walk in the woods, and creeks and sticks. He said: “Meme, pretty eyes.” But mostly he commands: Up on! Back out! Walk, walk on (sidewalk) Put back! and of course “Bye Bye”

Confessions of a Transplant: If there is water, I am home.

Home is where you know it is.

 

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I will listen until the trills fade and the light is old.

Found: Sandburg Fractal

Here dust remembers it was a rose

one time and lay in a woman’s hair.

Here dust remembers it was a woman

one time and in her hair lay a rose

Oh things one time dust, what else is it

you dream and remember of the old days?

 

– Carl Sandburg

Transplant: Fractal as Snow (?)

Return

Airmail and Mexican postage
I placed the letter beneath
your pillow and lost

you as dreams wandered
into suenos and caminos
meandered in the subjunctive

how I wanted to climb
into your voice, have you hear
the sky throwing snow

drifts up to the back door
and I shoveled, dug out
the car, a way to the mailbox

a labyrinth in the front yard
each shovel full and tossed
until my arms no longer felt

your absence and my ache
moved from my chest
to shoulders and hip bones