new favorite moment
to file away
to bring out
when you are grown:
nap-time snuggles in your new big-girl bed
face to face so close
I can smell your dorito breath.
I reach to caress your sweet chubby cheek
and you in turn pat mine
with your little warm hand.
My heart with that delicious ache
of almost bursting.
For a moment we both fight sleep:
you, to avoid the dreaded Nap
me, so I can creep away when you sucumb.
"I love you Emily"
"Love you too mom-mom. Soso much."
And then you roll away
snuggling deeper into your pillow.
Mission accomplished.
But this time I find myself
almost wishing
you would beg for a story
one more song
just to prolong
this tender moment.
I stare a few seconds at your little back
then, before I miss my opportunity
I go to tend to laundrydishesbills.
Monday, September 29, 2008
Sunday, September 28, 2008
Grandpa
It's crazy how you can miss someone almost daily once they are gone, when you only saw them about annually when they were alive.
The last time I saw him, he was standing with Grandma on their driveway, waving goodbye, after one last hug. I'd said, we'll come in the summer. But we didn't. When I came, it was for his funeral.
I guess I'd known, even when I'd mentioned another trip, that we wouldn't make it out to Utah that summer. But I was trying to make myself believe that this wasn't the last goodbye. He'd slowed down so much in the last few years, that every goodbye worried me. On the other hand, he was doing fine. He still had a sparkle in his eye, and actually, conversations had been easier since he'd gotten better hearing aids.
It was on Justin's 12th birthday that I got the bad news. We had been spending the day celebrating . . . breakfast of kolaches (his favorite), shopping for the birthday leopard geckos and all their paraphenalia . . . and were home briefly before heading out for a late lunch, when I decided to check in on the family message board. And found Grandma's message that Grandpa was very sick. Leukemia.
When we got back in the car, much subdued, to head out on the next birthday adventure, the song that had been last playing came on. It was a Mickey Mouse CD version of "If You're Happy and You Know It," blaring loudly. We all laughed a little at the irony, at how suddenly inappropriate the song was . . . and then cried a little too. Because we were sad, and we knew it, and there isn't a cute little song to tell us three easy things to do to express our sorrow to find out a beloved Grandpa is dying.
Later in the day I called my mom, to tell her how much I love her, and how sad I was about her dad, and she gave me some more details, including the fact that she and my dad were heading out to be with Grandma and Grandpa in a week; that Grandpa was out of the hospital; and the doctors didn't really know how much time he had, but certainly no more than a year. It was sad, but it also gave me hope that I could work it out to fly out for one last visit.
In the end there was no time for one last visit. By the time Mom got there, they knew Grandpa was within days of dying. I was suddenly faced with a miserable choice: fly out immediately, hoping that I would get a few minutes to visit while he was coherent; or wait to go to the funeral. It broke my heart, but I chose the funeral.
In a way, that's what life is all about. Trying to make the very best choice out of the miserable options we are given. Or sometimes we're given really great options to choose from, and are faced with choosing what we think is best, and the trial is never looking back and saying "what if . . . ?"
I just hope that Grandpa thinks I chose well, that he understood that I was honoring the best memories by not seeing him at his worst. One of his regrets in his last days was that he had never made it out to see our newest house. But I know he has seen it now, because I can't imagine that Grandpa, given the opportunity, is not watching over his family. He loved us all so dearly. I just hope in his last bad days, where I didn't show up to see him, he knew how much I love him. Hope he knows now too. That he sees my choices and is proud of me.
Because Grandpa always chose the best. He was good, kind, tender-hearted, honest, generous, faithful, living a life close to God. In the days where I was struggling with his imminent death, my husband, who is not verbal with his feelings, said (in essence) "I know that this is really hard for you. You will miss him so much. But it is only for this life. You know you will see him again. Your Grandpa is one of the best people that I know, and we both know that if anyone will go straight to the Celestial Kingdom, it is him." Which in a way, was my husband expressing to me that he knew that I was one of the good ones too -- that someday I'll be with God again. And with Grandpa.
Instead of that one last visit, I'm looking forward to that first visit.
And I'm trying to choose the best, so I'll be there.
The last time I saw him, he was standing with Grandma on their driveway, waving goodbye, after one last hug. I'd said, we'll come in the summer. But we didn't. When I came, it was for his funeral.
I guess I'd known, even when I'd mentioned another trip, that we wouldn't make it out to Utah that summer. But I was trying to make myself believe that this wasn't the last goodbye. He'd slowed down so much in the last few years, that every goodbye worried me. On the other hand, he was doing fine. He still had a sparkle in his eye, and actually, conversations had been easier since he'd gotten better hearing aids.
It was on Justin's 12th birthday that I got the bad news. We had been spending the day celebrating . . . breakfast of kolaches (his favorite), shopping for the birthday leopard geckos and all their paraphenalia . . . and were home briefly before heading out for a late lunch, when I decided to check in on the family message board. And found Grandma's message that Grandpa was very sick. Leukemia.
When we got back in the car, much subdued, to head out on the next birthday adventure, the song that had been last playing came on. It was a Mickey Mouse CD version of "If You're Happy and You Know It," blaring loudly. We all laughed a little at the irony, at how suddenly inappropriate the song was . . . and then cried a little too. Because we were sad, and we knew it, and there isn't a cute little song to tell us three easy things to do to express our sorrow to find out a beloved Grandpa is dying.
Later in the day I called my mom, to tell her how much I love her, and how sad I was about her dad, and she gave me some more details, including the fact that she and my dad were heading out to be with Grandma and Grandpa in a week; that Grandpa was out of the hospital; and the doctors didn't really know how much time he had, but certainly no more than a year. It was sad, but it also gave me hope that I could work it out to fly out for one last visit.
In the end there was no time for one last visit. By the time Mom got there, they knew Grandpa was within days of dying. I was suddenly faced with a miserable choice: fly out immediately, hoping that I would get a few minutes to visit while he was coherent; or wait to go to the funeral. It broke my heart, but I chose the funeral.
In a way, that's what life is all about. Trying to make the very best choice out of the miserable options we are given. Or sometimes we're given really great options to choose from, and are faced with choosing what we think is best, and the trial is never looking back and saying "what if . . . ?"
I just hope that Grandpa thinks I chose well, that he understood that I was honoring the best memories by not seeing him at his worst. One of his regrets in his last days was that he had never made it out to see our newest house. But I know he has seen it now, because I can't imagine that Grandpa, given the opportunity, is not watching over his family. He loved us all so dearly. I just hope in his last bad days, where I didn't show up to see him, he knew how much I love him. Hope he knows now too. That he sees my choices and is proud of me.
Because Grandpa always chose the best. He was good, kind, tender-hearted, honest, generous, faithful, living a life close to God. In the days where I was struggling with his imminent death, my husband, who is not verbal with his feelings, said (in essence) "I know that this is really hard for you. You will miss him so much. But it is only for this life. You know you will see him again. Your Grandpa is one of the best people that I know, and we both know that if anyone will go straight to the Celestial Kingdom, it is him." Which in a way, was my husband expressing to me that he knew that I was one of the good ones too -- that someday I'll be with God again. And with Grandpa.
Instead of that one last visit, I'm looking forward to that first visit.
And I'm trying to choose the best, so I'll be there.
Tortured Artist
I usually only write poetry when I am depressed; yes, I am a horrible cliche -- the tortured artist.
And sometimes reading a book will inspire me and I will want to write. I will have words bumping around in my head trying to get out for days. Sometimes I will write some of them down, but sometimes they will just bump and bump until they give up, and my brain goes back to thinking the "normal" way.
But I suddenly feel like a switch has been turned on inside my head, and everything is prose trying to arrange itself on the written page. I wake at 1:30 am to feed my crying baby, and I am composing lines about her tiny hungry mouth at my breast. Not that the 1:30 am stuff is any good, but the point is that I can't seem to turn it off. So I thought instead, I would try to actually get some thoughts put down. Little stories, poems, etc that come to mind.
And sometimes reading a book will inspire me and I will want to write. I will have words bumping around in my head trying to get out for days. Sometimes I will write some of them down, but sometimes they will just bump and bump until they give up, and my brain goes back to thinking the "normal" way.
But I suddenly feel like a switch has been turned on inside my head, and everything is prose trying to arrange itself on the written page. I wake at 1:30 am to feed my crying baby, and I am composing lines about her tiny hungry mouth at my breast. Not that the 1:30 am stuff is any good, but the point is that I can't seem to turn it off. So I thought instead, I would try to actually get some thoughts put down. Little stories, poems, etc that come to mind.
Saturday, September 27, 2008
Your Eyes
Sweet little child, what do you see
with those brown-green eyes
looking up at me?
When I don't hear your cries
what crosses your mind?
When I walk too fast and leave
you behind?
When I can't ease your pain
do you know I hurt too?
Though I feel so deeply my failures
do you feel my love for you?
Sweet little child what price
do you pay
When I'm broken and seem to
have lost my way?
I see a worn-out mother
frazzled, half-dead --
But you look deeper and see
divinity instead.
In your eyes I find I can
almost see
The one you adore,
the mother you believe me to be.
When you reach out tiny hands
around my neck holding tight
Suddenly we're
both bathed in God's loving light.
with those brown-green eyes
looking up at me?
When I don't hear your cries
what crosses your mind?
When I walk too fast and leave
you behind?
When I can't ease your pain
do you know I hurt too?
Though I feel so deeply my failures
do you feel my love for you?
Sweet little child what price
do you pay
When I'm broken and seem to
have lost my way?
I see a worn-out mother
frazzled, half-dead --
But you look deeper and see
divinity instead.
In your eyes I find I can
almost see
The one you adore,
the mother you believe me to be.
When you reach out tiny hands
around my neck holding tight
Suddenly we're
both bathed in God's loving light.
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