“I think it is all a matter of love: the more you love a memory, the stronger and stranger it is.”

2 Sep

In the new hole

dug free of the past

they dig and dig

for dinner, for dinosaurs

for cats.


Anything better than dirty children? Toes under mud, smears of whatnot on faces, clothes filthy. I love it. I absolutely love it, tired as I am of impeccable sons and daughters, pure fingernails, perfect hair. There’s something so simple and logical about dirty kids.

In one day, one more day, my oldest sets off for school, and life will never be the same for her ever again. Or me. Our house will be quieter, Rosalyn won’t be dictated to as she is right now (“I hate this game! Let’s just play Baby and Mommy!” NOW!) and we’ll all grow up a little. She’ll be gone from me, cleaned in haste since that’s what one does when they leave into the world.

I’m excited, oh so excited for the glory she’s walking into, the beginning of her life-not mine, she’s already possessed that enough, but her own. Living for who she’ll be, breathing for her alone, her devotion to her parents waning slowly but surely until it settles into a quiet warmth she’ll carry forever. I’m excited to watch her step firmly through those doors without me, my hand merely damp with her warmth. I’m excited for my little girl to tell me all about her days, as I did once, filling the room with moments and spaces.

She is not me, I not her and I will cry on Thursday when I do have to let go, leave her in the arms and eyes of those I do not know, a prelude to years from now when I leave her blind at a door of someone I might never meet, when I leave her on the steps of a university, hoping she’ll know what she’s doing, when I hold her hand as she births her future children. I will cry, unashamed, mourning what we had, mourning the mistakes I will make in the years to coming, mourning all the ways I can love her better. Crying for all the ways I do love her, my magical Monday daughter, dressed in light and momentum.

Crying for how she makes my heart ache for things I can’t remember.


Between toes live

eggs born of T-Rex, Stegosaurus

the multitudes I can’t spell.

Between breaths they hold out pudgy

nearly baby free arms, shielding their eyes

from this sherbet late day sun

“What was it?” “Who is it.”

they ask.

Never an answer made that

will satisfy the thirst they

bridle here today.


I’ll fill the cup regardless.

3 Responses to ““I think it is all a matter of love: the more you love a memory, the stronger and stranger it is.””

  1. Marcy September 2, 2008 at 11:02 pm #

    I love the last line.

  2. sweetsalty kate September 3, 2008 at 8:38 am #

    This was so, so gorgeous.


  1. Lamer than Joaquim’s beard. « Spin Me I Pulsate - January 2, 2009

    […] In the new hole […]

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