A Poem, I WANT

I Want

(I wanted

the past to go away, I wanted

to leave, it like another country…)

Except, I want the past to stay.

Not all of it, only snippits:

his warm, wet little body slipping out of the tub 

and into the big fluffy towel,

him giggling,

me rubbing him dry

until his skin almost shines.

His laughter as he peddles his little feet,

maneuvering his shiny red fire truck,

or fifth hot wheel bike,

up and down the sidewalk and around the block.

GI Joes, convoys, vampires at Halloween, and

Christmas morning glee.

Smores around the campfire.

Him burrowing down under the covers in his flannel pajamas,

his tiny arms flung around my neck

and his whispers, 
       “I love you Mommy”.

And there are grown up snippits of our past that I’d like to stay, too:

family dinners at Christmas time,

presents under the tree,

“Merry Christmas”,

“Happy birthday”,

his deep grown-up voice declaring without shame, 
       “I love you Mom”.

And his children laughing and playing games,

running in and out of the kitchen,

asking for fat buttered rolls, hot out of the oven,

sleep overs at Grandma's,

our special breakfast of cinnamon-sugar buenelos and milk.

Today there seems only to be a hole in my heart 

          where the past used to be.

(Also, I wanted

to be able to love. And we all know

how that one goes,

don’t we?)

That was my prayer too.

I asked to love without condition,

with no judgment or expectation.

The cost has been high.

(You don’t want to hear the story

of my life, and anyway

I don’t want to tell it.)

Again.

I’ve told it far too often.

What I’d like to leave behind for real this time

is the treasured loss,

the re-collecting of all those moments,

the stories that sit in the corners of my mind

like all that straw locked in the room with her.

She kept spinning that straw hoping it would turn into gold.

That only happens in fairy tales.

I want to be free

to live and laugh and love

what I have today,

at this very moment.

At the same time,

I want my kids

and my kids’ kids to come home

– just for a moment –

to play.

(The lines in parens are from Mary Oliver’s “Dogfish”, from Dreamwork.)