the edges of myself

I never read the rules for mothering

it seems I was absent that day

perhaps all of us were.

Carrying around the textbook burden of guilt,

the weight of which mocks our

shortcomings and reveals the all-too

constant truth that we’re just winging it.

 

Each new day, another brave face–

scooping up the pieces and soldiering on.

Content and smiling with the spoils of the day–

an unprompted thank you, pictures on the

fridge professing a love that is unquestioned

and unfathomably real– beyond any reality.

 

Tracing the trails around the house–a

life of yes’s and no’s, pleases and thank yous

the giving and giving and giving and giving

though given any other choice– we’d refuse it.

 

The tiny fingers and toes, growing past our own–

the curve of a cheek and dimpled smile

retracing years of devotion– reminders of the

sweet days, before language gave width and breadth

and life continued moving forward despite our

most desperate pleas to STOP for just this one

sweet

moment.

 

The trick being– it never does, never will.

We must acknowledge that these sweet moments pile

one on top of the other and weave through each other

to create the constant film for which there is no

rewind or pause or fast forward.

Time will allow us only to

play.