The Hazy Beam of Hindsight

The hazy beam of hindsight soft-focuses on needs that seemed simple

Not easy, but straight-forward.  Flailing limbs swaddled into compact burdens

Demanding, but not heavy

Plenty were the times I couldn’t stop the tears (theirs, mine.)

Bone-aching exhaustion, certain I couldn’t stand one more minute of bouncing

But of course I could.  Rocking swaying patting away unspoken fears

Frustrating little wonders. And me the brave knight tasked with conquering fears

Talk already! I silently begged. Make it simple

Tell me and I’ll find an answer. Is it hunger? Or more incessant bouncing?

Complex because you couldn’t voice them, simple needs seemed like burdens

No commingling then, a problem sat squarely in baby’s camp, or mine

Addressed, and Poof! Gone. Grievances had no time to grow heavy.

I miss days when my arms grew heavy

From rocking them.  When bumps in the night birthed easy-to-soothe fears.

Tiny bodies completely encompassed within the circle of mine.

Days, long.  Sunlight, golden.  Solutions, simple.

Sweet were the loads I could carry in my arms.  Not like these, heart-burdens

Emotions, tugging.  My gut on a see-saw, nauseous from the bouncing

The puppeteers weave their tale, pull my strings, set me to bouncing

And then move on. I hang there, tangled and heavy

In a web woven of teen-aged angst I take their burdens

Pull them on like a wool sweater shrunk in the wash.  I wear their fears.

I need to break free, extricate myself (they say as if it’s that simple)

As if it would be possible to separate the beating of their hearts from mine

Perspective is required.  These thorns of mine

Are no more than a first world problem.  How dare I complain of a heart set bouncing

From school-yard slights and insults wielded like sharpened sticks.  It’s simple

Their needs are met. Shelter, food. Health, love. Nothing heavy

Slows them down.  And yet I fall hostage to capricious fears

Mean girls choose another seat at lunch, and I am drowning in burdens.

I’m staggering beneath the weight of amorphous burdens

That lift, willy-nilly, from their shoulders, yet cast long shadows over mine.

They bounce back, so I cautiously dip a toe in murky waters to test for lingering fears.

I am only as happy as my least happy child.  A yo-yo forever bouncing

My heart out there dancing with danger.  Now light, then heavy

Now light again. I should untangle myself.  It’s not that simple

The sweater is tightly woven of fears, locking in burdens

This can be simple. I reject it, peel it off. It is not mine.

And unbound I embrace the bouncing, and see lightness counteracting all that is heavy.

Schedule, Fox

Here in the realm of the wall calendar, which hangs prominently in my kitchen

I wield a pencil, and creatively fit in the track meet, rescheduled for an already bursting Thursday

I’ll move that lunch, note to self, to a day or week that shows more empty space

Next month, time will be more palpable.  Looking less the deceitful fox

of desperation slipping ever forward toward a skittish horizon

And more like an old reliable friend.  Measurable moments, written in boxes, held in my hand.

I like that I can view time unfolding with a flick of my hand

Lifting pages, traveling backwards, unbelieving.  Did I sleep through April? My kitchen

calendar tells no lies, and there stands May, defiantly staring out through me to an erratic horizon

Not steadfast and reliable like a horizon should be.  It lets Monday spool out into Thursday

Time flying not like a graceful bird.  A cunning fox

Deceitful, gone before I knew to celebrate it’s arrival.  And always the next commitment fills the space

May will betray like April has, eagerly anticipated appointments to blame in each geometric space

Yet those entries, the multitude of entries, have all been written by my hand

Am I the fox?

Slinking in, furtively grabbing a nub of pencil from the messy drawer in the kitchen

Marking in a required meeting, Tuesday.  Standing lunch date, husband, Thursday

Blinded to the forest and the trees with eyes always seeking the next thing on the horizon

I can stop the insanity.  Snap the pencil. Turn my back on the distant premeditated horizon

Hunker down hold tight to my time, this space

Look intently not at the boxes on the wall, but at each actual Thursday

And as it tries to slip through the door I will grab it by the hand

We’ll sit together, sipping something warm in the steadfast kitchen

And time will not fly.  Will not scamper out like an errant fox.

The chatter and smells, the laughter and warmth work wonders upon the cagey fox

Who circles twice, curls tail beneath him, and sleepily looks towards the horizon

Which, in this case, is the authoritative line of the calendar on the wall in the kitchen

The tiny boxes of perfection creating for each day a sacrosanct space

Where-upon I can execute little memories-to-be by my own hand

Good intentions at fault, as I hastily pencil in family concert in the park, next Thursday

I’m territorial, peeing all over in attempt to own Thursday

Freezing time, preventing it from slipping away from me into the overgrown grass, like a fox

Stealing my days, unspooling months and years with this slight-of-hand

Pages of the calendar flipping faster in their dash to the horizon

Leaving me empty space

An empty kitchen

I take an eraser in hand, and boldly reclaim Thursday

Unfolding itself in real-time. I linger in the kitchen, and kneel to pet the fox

Who no longer bolts for the horizon. Ours an unlikely partnership, being forged, in this reclaimed space.