Mom, can you carry my backpack?

Mom, will you get my lunchbox?

Mom, have you seen my favorite shirt?

I can’t find my shoes (look by the door).

I don’t see them anywhere (look by the door).

I can’t find them (look, here they are, right by the door).

Mom, can you handle the weight of a pandemic?

Mom, are your children safe at school?

Mom, do you hear the distant rumblings of war?

Don’t forget:

you need to make dinner (add milk to the grocery list)

fold the laundry (switch a load to the dryer)

check the school folders (permission slip due tomorrow)

and hold the world together with scotch tape while

you fill your instagram feed with beautiful pictures.

I walked into an antique store on Friday, spent an hour

sorting through the remnants of other people's lives,

the pieces someone else thought were worth saving.

Hundreds of records, bowls full of buttons, stacks of McCall’s dress patterns

A Five Year Diary caught my eye, 1946 to 1950.

I struggled to read the handwriting so I left it on display.

I haven’t stopped thinking about it since I drove away.

The Original Tinkertoy, vintage Scrabble boards, buckets of wooden blocks

25+ vintage photographs in a clear plastic bag, only $11.

Did the last of the family line die out or did the descendants

not want to sort through images of relatives they never knew?

Wooden rolling pins, Brownie cameras, Pyrex dishes

Jewelry lines one wall, shiny gold, ruby reds, brilliant blues

I wonder if it remembers being held up against outfits,

selected for date night, a dinner party, a church event;

now it waits to be conscripted into a new jewelry box.

Candlesticks, silver teapots, silverware no longer in sets

A stack of china; did a long-ago bride pick this out for her wedding day?

Did she stroll through a now-defunct department store to make her choices?

How many meals did her family eat from these dishes before they came here,

on display once again, waiting to be chosen; a reprise of sorts.

Brass figurines—a set of three swans, an elephant, two apples, and a goose

Fragments of hundreds of lives

biding their time until they are

woven into a new story.

A blue and white vase, that comes to $10.73

I couldn’t stop thinking about

the memory book, the photographs.

I went back on Saturday morning;

$22.52 seemed like a small price to pay

to give these stories another chance.

I am stitching together patchwork quilts of memories

And I hope they will carry with them wherever they go,

Even when they become old and faded from use,

When no trace of little boy remains and they are

young men striking out on their own.

Years from now, I will sit in a rocking chair next to my husband,

The memories of their small selves dancing in front of me,

And pull my own quilt of memories around me,

patchwork squares of motherhood faded with time.

I hope it is not stitched together with threads of impatience,

Repetitions of “Just a second”, whole squares made of laundry and dishes.

But instead fabric the brilliant blue

of afternoons watching bubbles float to the sky,

a neon splatter of dance parties for no reason at all,

the bright pink plaid of our picnic blanket with

a feast of Chick-Fil-A spread in the middle of a field.

The emerald hue of the leaves as we follow a path

to find that waterfall or the perfect fishing spot.

The ecru glitter of running barefoot on the beach,

a vibrant orange, the rush of exploration,

whether on foot or through the pages of a book.

I hope they remember a mother

with a penchant for laughter and adventure

who stitched their quilts

with a calm, patient and steady hand.

One whose full attention is given to the delight of being with them,

who watches and notices, exclaims over their discoveries,

pauses to memorize little arms that wrap around her neck,

chunky legs that always find their way to her lap,

and who savors wet kisses on her cheek.

When they return to this quilt throughout the years,

decades from now, faded though it may be,

when the generations have shifted and they are old men,

I hope they can still feel the stitches of love,

the prayers of a mother, and the memories

of a childhood filled with joy.

The moment I became a mother

The haunting began

Late at night, the ghosts crowd in

The what-ifs and implausible

(yet ever-so-slightly possible)

scenarios elbow their way

next to the lists of dangers

decreed at the pediatrician’s office:

grapes and popcorn (choking hazard!),

cords on the blinds (strangulation risk!)

bikes without helmets, sharp objects,

failure to properly baby-proof,

too much screen time,

and other perils that feed the frenzy

in moms groups:

puffy coats that shouldn’t be worn in car seats,

predators lurking on the other side of a screen

human traffickers in the aisles of Target,

dangers real and imagined

jostling for space with memories

of the times I know I got it wrong,

mistakes and missed opportunities,

close calls and near disasters

questions with no answers,

the randomness of the universe.

And under it all

my old self fights to breathe

tried to claw her way out

from under the dirt

remember who she was before

the ghosts

arrived,

haunting me

in the night.

There is an in-between hour where

the sky slips from inky darkness and

the world is not yet awake, where

streaks of light beckon the sun to rise.

In this hour an ordinary seat on the couch

becomes an early morning haven of solitude,

a favorite spot full of magic

that exists only in the early morning hours.

I rise quietly and tiptoe down the stairs,

sink into this soft place, hot coffee in hand.

A blanket cocoons me in warmth and

the sunrise song of the birds is the only sound. 

In this hour, I learn to be still. I am only me.

I am not the finder of Legos, washer of dishes,

folder of laundry, maker of lunches,

solver of problems or mediator of disagreements.

As the sun washes over the horizon

words wash over me, spill out of me,

fill blank pages, and are carried 

to the heavens in whispered prayers

Morning breaks and the in-between hour is over.

Little boys appear, rubbing sleep from their eyes, 

and soon a different kind of magic

will turn this spot into a fort or pirate ship.

But for one hour each day, 

As the sun puts the moon to bed,

This ordinary seat is transformed

And for this, I am thankful.

The marbles work their way down the tracks

twisting and winding, curving through obstacles,

dropping down chutes, spinning past bright colors.

I watch them journey and I wonder.

Have I made enough of the last three years? 

First the fog of the newborn days, 

followed by the fear of the early pandemic days, 

then the slog of the virtual school days, 

and these last months, just me and him, 

my little shadow.

Errands and library visits and walks,

painting and building towers of blocks, 

punctuated by emails and phone calls,

“I’ll be there in just a minute,” repeated over and over. 

I just need to switch the laundry, 

load the dishwasher, sweep the floor,

stare into the abyss.

Next week he will venture into a new world, 

A classroom full of teachers and friends,

Carrying a tiny backpack and lunch box, 

My last baby, out in the world without me 

And I will be alone, with the precious few hours

to myself I’ve longed for and fantasized about.

I reach out and touch a golden curl,

savor this moment where he is my full-time shadow.

The marbles keep rolling but I watch him instead:

His little laugh, his perfect smile

The way his pushes his hair back 

and claps his hands.

I memorize the delight on his face

and I know

I will miss these days. 

And I know

I will luxuriate in the silence and space.

And I know 

he will keep growing

and I will have to keep learning

to let him go.

She scours the internet for the perfect decorations to pull off an at-home preschool graduation. Which balloons say, “I’m so sorry your last year of preschool happened at our kitchen table during a pandemic?” Which colorful tassels convey, “I tried so hard but I’m terrified I didn’t do enough to prepare you for kindergarten?” Which cardboard cut-outs express, “I love you so much sometimes I think my heart will explode?” She sorts through photos, carefully arranging them next to artwork and questions, “Was my best good enough?” She wonders if a tiny graduation cap is too much. Adds to cart.

Let me stop to listen, pause to marvel,

drink in the beauty surrounding me.

Help me notice the light dancing and the dazzling array of colors and ideas before me.

Give me faith and courage to look beyond what is

and dream of what could be,

to try and fail and try again.

Grant me patience and perseverance

as I cast off chains of comparison and insecurity

and find joy in creating.