Published in
I Still Sing Your Lullabies: A mother’s love & loss
What I Missed
Sharing a future I held in my hands
the day they were born
Donuts and coffee in the afternoon. Sitting cross-legged
on the floor. Seeing them blossom into middle-aged women.
Knowing each wrinkle as it appears on their faces.
Meeting for lunch. Hearing about their work, their worries,
their kids. Knowing their houses, their kitchens, their gardens.
Sharing a beer at the bar. Cousin Camp every summer.
Baking S’mores over the fire-pit. Singing together around
the campfire. Laughing over a game of charades. Going
to the mall. Deciding whose car we’ll take.
Meeting at the swimming pool. Rubbing lotion
on each other’s backs. Talking about new recipes. Sharing
favorite music. Going out for dinner. Celebrating birthdays.
Trimming the Christmas tree. Renting a house at the beach.
Playing scrabble. Double-handed solitaire. Swapping
clothes, shoes, earrings. Talking about the grandchildren.
Teaching the grandkids to swim. Write poetry. Embroider.
Sitting on the couch. Tackling projects together. Pruning
their flowers. Weeding their gardens. Babysitting their pets.
Visiting the National Parks. Traveling on the Parkway.
Kayaking down the Nolichucky. Taking a zip-line
through the mountains, screaming the entire way.
Packing a picnic lunch. Riding in their Jeep, their Porsche.
Sleeping under the stars. Staying in their guest rooms.
Having them sleep in mine.
Watching them appear in the morning. Fresh from a night
of dreams. Enjoying a morning walk. A hot tub.
Braiding their hair. Hugging them often.
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I Still Sing Your Lullabies
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