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
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
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.