We are both waiting, quietly observing
She calm, her coat zipped right to the top
Her pink suede boots with satin ribbon laces, dangle
Where is the aunt, her mom, maybe dad, today
The secretaries try the numbers, no answers
One mentions the books she can look at
Does she want to unzip her coat, another asks
You look uncomfortable with it up so high
No, it isn’t hurting me, see? Her chin held high
While she waits sweetly, her blonde curly hair
A wild frame for her little angelic face that stares
Straight ahead, what thoughts behind still eyes
Picking up a book she only holds its sleeve out
Where are the pictures she wonders aloud, not
To me specifically, just for anyone, she is now
Concerned about where they might be,
The people who love her, I touch the book
Explaining it is kept nice by that outside cover
She leafs uncomfortably through its pages
The phone rings, She’s right here, is the response
The secretary indicates, dad is out in the parking lot
Come on, says the secretary, I will walk you out to him
She doesn’t move. She stares ahead at the window
I see him now, too, a young dad smiling, amiable
They say, is that your daddy,
When he comes through the office door She turns her head, hesitates
Taking a big long look, she nods jumping off the chair
She is the sweetest little thing, I tell him
The secretary says, yes, I could take her home with me
Our reminders to her of her specialness, and to dad
Please don’t forget her someday when there is no
Warm office, lovely secretaries, and a mom who waits
Category Archives: children
For Anonymous – The Importance of Family
They were standing in the kitchen.
Why is it serious family events
always reveal themselves in our kitchens?
He had a large lump on his neck.
My dad feeling it, for my mom
Agreeing, it seemed awfully big
For a swollen lymph gland
It wasn’t mumps.
Mumps didn’t look like that.
This, the only time I saw
My daddy look scared
Our mom lying face down
On her bed sobbing.
Bad news I heard mom tell
My aunt Alice on the phone
My brother, cancer, he would
Have to go away to get better
Their only hope.
Brett would need surgery.
My parents needed
To be with him
I didn’t realize then
The big long zipper
On my brothers chest
Could have killed him.
How did he get through that?
Driving up in the
Light blue Buick singing
That’s the Night that the Lights Went Out in Georgia.
Tim’s favorite song.
Brett would come down to see us,
I think it was the lobby.
We drove the 90 minutes
Back in the dark
Sunday nights; him alone, us
Squeezed into the back seat.
Not knowing really
What was happening
He couldn’t come with us, yet
We other five cared for by
My mom’s sisters, brothers.
Adopted for weeks at a time.
Alice made me eat my vegetables.
She made me stop
Sucking my finger, by my side
At my second first communion
She makes sure a person
Knows they aren’t alone.
Years later when he got sick again
I would look at him
In that hospital bed
Fighting for another day
I understood how scared
At 13 he must have been
I couldn’t bare him
To be alone this time.
He told me how he hated
When he was left alone
Back then because
Five other kids were home
He needed us then
Now he deserves better
Than what we can do
Even when sometimes
The need to help was too much.
His wife always at his side
Until morning came
To adjust his breathing mask
Keeping track of so much
Informing of the details
No one else remembers
In a hospital, but
Shouldn’t they,
Mostly, like Alice, so he knew
He wasn’t alone
We didn’t stop at the lobby
This time, he didn’t come home
I miss my sweet big brother
Eleven
Today is my niece’s birthday
Much loved and well thought of
Tomorrow, her new age officially
Will roll across her tongue proud
In slight departure from youth
Creating a cheek to cheek smile
A week later, this step up the
Numerical ladder will make her
Pause remembering the fun
The celebration and joy attained
With this shiny new pinnacle
She can no longer use
A visual jazz hands to
Display her decade of youth
She is eleven now, this requires
Pause, thought, reflection for her
More for all of us, fondly
Knowing she will continue
Creating laughter, love, and
Even sometimes frustration
Becoming who she wants to be
Ten lovely years chasing behind
The Joy Changes
My sweet coworker
Visiting my desk, relief
From task filled thoughts
Joy apparent in the familiar
Circular caress of comfort
As she shares her delight
In what she cannot fully
Appreciate nor comprehend; yet
Memory providing in
Easy recollection, my own
Nine month sabbaticals
From loneliness
Joy, ceaseless wonder
Perfected companionship
Reveling each change
Every miraculous movement
Then a familiar interruption
My youngest, calling from home
His frustration evident, crying
His schoolwork is so hard
I will be home in an hour
We will figure it out together
His angry indictment
You always have to work late
He hangs up first and I hold
The receiver silently, hesitating
In momentary consideration
Suddenly, instinctively
My coat and gloves on
Leaving an every day list
Without all expectations
Crossed off in evidence
Of unseen accomplishment
Arriving home in time for
His singing like Pavarotti
To a steamed up mirror
They Called Him Buck
My dad, telling the perfect joke
A favorite bartender
He would be amused
So many colored liquors
Lining the back shelf now
His drinks amber, gold and clear
Creme de Menthe and
Sloe Gin the exceptions
My dad, his arm bent like
A wing holding his cigarette
Out the window, steering
With the other, loving his
Buick, Chrysler or Olds
Sales cases not car seats
Keeping him company
Always deep in concentration
My dad, watching television
John Wayne, Creature Feature
Maybe golf, football or fishing
Always calm then, unless
The Packers lost the football
Then he yelled from a dark place
Me quietly leaving, startling
Him to embarrassment
My dad, cooking meals
Perfect steak and burgers
Spaghetti sauce, marinades we
Couldn’t really appreciate then
French toast on lenten Fridays
The never ending crispy soft slices
Butter and syrup sliding in perfect union
With glasses of so cold milk
My dad, trimming the hedge
Arms persistently tanned
Extended outward for hours
In work appearing effortless
Swaying back and forth
Slashing into shape
The perimeter of
His domestic jungle
My dad, temper flaring
Against only himself
Evidence now he lived
In a prison of fear over
Standards of perfection
That couldn’t be met
Left to wonder of the origin
Answers long buried with him
My dad, in remembering
The great and beautiful
Ingredients of him, a recipe
He was given, then gave
My memory’s mixture
Grateful for the good
Now, as a parent, contending
In empathy with the flaws
Breakfast with Buse 