Comic Book Mama

Foot full of screws
Pockmarked knee
Wild white hairs where the stitches used to be
Scalpel lines
A crooked pinky
All proof of resilience, survival.

Spider veins, belly skin loose from growing life
Calves taught from years, miles on the trail
Freckles, moles, wrinkles from days in the sun
Biceps thickened pushing strollers, carrying babies, diaper bags, sports gear
Hands worn from hours in the garden, the kitchen
Feet with painted toes, rough from walking barefoot
All proof of contentment, joy.

In the inky black morning
I slip on my shoes
And fasten your leash
And we step out into a world that is mostly asleep

Except for…
The hooting owls
The hopping bunnies
The chattering bats
The winking stars
And the earliest birds singing,
“Wake up Sun! It’s almost time!”

When the sun splits the clouds
And the flowers bloom
Bees buzz and birds sing
It’s hard to remember
That there is anything other than joy in the world.

Complain as they might
About shutting off devices
And getting off the couch
And putting on a jacket
And getting out their bikes
I know that they know
This is the best way to start the day.

To those who did as much and more
Survived the things we’d all abhor

Lacked the credit you were due
For things you did and things you knew

I honor you and yearn to hear
The ways you thrived and choked down fear

The ways you shifted things for good
Though dudes declared you never could

How in between your babies’ squeals
While wearing corsets, hose, and heels

You organized, marched, carried on
While mocked, dismissed, told you weren’t strong

We’re taught which stories to recall
But now it’s time to hear them all

To those who lacked respect and choice
It’s high time that we heard your voice

In simpler times
There was no rush
To this practice and that meeting

Just lazy afternoons
Picnicking with friends
At the Wednesday Farmers Market

Essential tasks included
Face paint, bounce houses, balloons
But not necessarily in that order.

Who you are
What you become
Where you end up
Choices you make along the way

None of these things are up to me.

Still, I like to dream, to wish…

That you will find your people.

The ones who see you, hear you, feel you
Even on the days you feel invisible, unheard, numb

The ones who get you, giggle in solidarity
Even if no one else is laughing

The ones who share your soul, your spirit
Even if they don’t share your blood.

The ones who make you feel like home
Even when you’re miles away from where you began.

Try as I might, I cannot always be what you need
Even though I’d love nothing more.

So I hope you find your people.

I hope you feel loved beyond measure, accepted just as you are
Even and especially on the days, in the moments
I’m unable to hold you just so
I’m lacking the perfect words
I’m struggling to reflect just how much you shimmer and shine.

I wish I were a writer
Spending hours with my pen.

But it’s time to cook some dinner
And there’s laundry in the bin.

I wish I were a poet
Spinning metaphors and rhymes.

But there’s just too much to capture
In these precious fleeting times.

So ‘til you boys are older
I’ll set down my pen and pad.

Spend some time just being here,
Enjoying what we have.

And when you’re independent and
I’ve space to do it well,

I’ll think about the times we’ve had
And sit and write a spell.

And even now,
After all this time,
Your absence hangs like a heavy cloud.
Blocking out the sun that used to be you.

One of the sweetest gifts I received over the holidays was a painstaking, hours-long manual repair of my long-broken, mostly-dead blog. I had long given up on the idea of having this space to write poems, share recipes, express thoughts. But then my hubs had different ideas. Though not particularly technical, he took the time to learn and untangle everything that had gone wrong. He presented me with the fruits of his labor on Christmas Day.

It’s been almost two years since I wrote anything here. I’ve gotten rustier, older, busier. The boys have grown and changed. Perimenopause and it’s good friends creaky joints, cognitive decline, night sweats, and occasional bouts of depression have settled in. 

In the world outside, things have become increasingly uncertain and scary. Everyone seems to be gnashing teeth, shouting positions, circling inevitable conflicts. Age, lack of practice, the state of the world all leave me feeling unsure of where to begin or what to say. Still–out of gratitude for this gift I’ve been given–I reckon it’s high time I say SOMETHING.

So I’ll begin with reflections on this day…the day we celebrate one of the few humans who always seemed to have the right words. Today we celebrate Dr. Martin Luther King. Today–surrounded by friends and neighbors and my three best men–I sat in a theater, marched in the street, remembered that even in times of struggle and chaos and uncertainty and strife, there is goodness to be found, hands to hold, reasons to believe that better days are ahead. I was reminded “We must accept finite disappointment, but never lose infinite hope.” When feeling at a loss for how to feel or what to say…HOPE seems like a pretty good place to start.