how do I even try to record, batten down, pin like moths still flapping

the moments in a day

when each joy, each glance from my boy,

each NEW THING sings, yearns in me

electric curly neon, “REMEMBER THIS.”

 

This is love, important,

in an instance sandwiched on other incidents

indenting me, embossing my soul

even carving out a den.

 

Each squeeze from my girl goes somewhere.

A storing up of together.

 

This peculiar little cave

is enough to fill volumes or at least, bottles

like sand and sea glass

and wave to the wind, a lighthouse

hourglasses, eternal.

 

it’s enough, I say, each moment

and yet, I crave remembering–

telling stories that won’t go down with me.

I crave monuments

erected in shadows and open windows.

 

cement mixed and poured into messages

traced with a stick in the sand.

not even “wet”,

not any wave

or storm,

shipwreck will disappoint this girl

this family of thieves, robbing death

because they herald truth and the ultimate hope.

 

Oh, see that sanded deck.

you are more than conquerors,

more than temporal.

See that seed and plant it deep.

This is a little thought as I approach my first ever writing group, as an adult. as a mom. 

Even now, as I feel so “behind” in recording our life–birth stories, how I got to Japan, every morning & bedtime. 

Anyway, no sweat. feeling exactly where I need to be, even in my imperfections & sometimes-overwhelm.