Somebody's Daughter

We all carry pieces of her,
for luck, I suppose,
perhaps for a glimpse
of who we used to be:
for me, I was once,
somebody's daughter.

A string of glittering crystal beads
now encircle my neck,
while a pale green stuffed frog
takes up residence
on an unmade bed,
and a Kodachrome picture
of the three of them
hangs next to the sharp
metal corner of a locker.

These are talismans, for us,
our sad treasures,
but an easy form of solice for those
who lost track of her,
such that she was.

What claim do we have on these things,
her things, even on her?
We lost our rights
when our busy selves couldn't stop
our incessant moving, doing,
or even look up
as she slipped away, a whisp of
flesh, hair, and bone gone,
gone, gone,
under the door.

Dear Mom

Dear Mom,

It's been such a long time, and I thought I might see you today. I'm sorry I didn't make it.

Rachel played a field hockey game not too far from where you are now; I know you would have been there if you could. I thought back to the old days when I'd get to the softball or lacrosse field late, and you'd be waiting in the stands. Do you remember how you toppled backwards out of your chair in the outfield? We laughed then at our shared clumsiness, the sunshine crowding in around us, our feet bare in the clovered grass.

How many times did we sit knee to knee in the ice rink, a single blanket covering us, as we watched my sons and daughter cut across the ice from net to net? I don't think you ever understood the rules of their sports, but your hands were always full of quarters for the kids to play video games, to buy hot dogs and hot chocolate. "Where's Nan?" they would ask me when you couldn't come because of a play, a card party, or a dinner out.

And then you really couldn't come. You did try, the long walk from the parking lot to the rink stealing the little breath you could pull into your lungs. The last time you came to the lacrosse field you tripped up the steep metal bleacher stairs, leaving bloodied shins that were reluctant to heal. I don't think you ever did see Rachel play lacrosse, fiercely defending her goalie, your determination flashing from her eyes.

After a while, I quit telling you about things. Did I lie to you? It was such hard work for you to come to concerts and games. At the end, you were starting to get ready for dinner outings shortly after noon, so wearily slow was your small body. I tried to pick what you would like most, and I shielded you from the others--at least that's what I told myself. Perhaps it was too much of an effort for me to help you, so short of breath--an old woman frantically gulping mouthfuls of air-- up the steps, down the hallway, into a seat. Mea culpa, Mom.

Today I thought how much you would have loved watching Rachel as goalie. Her red mouth guard makes a loony smile, and she stands tall in the net like a blond Amazon. We call her RoboRach, her bright orange pads giving her the look of a Transformer. You would have sat talking to me, drinking me in, loving me until I redirected your vision, saying: "Look, Mom, they're headed toward Rach. Look, look there--you'll see her stop the ball."

I could see myself turning left instead of right after the game, following the winding road to where you are now. In my heart, I would throw myself across your grave, face down in the spiky grass, tracing your name and date on the bronze plate with my disconnected fingers. People watching would have seen a woman sitting on a concrete bench; perhaps she would have covered her face with her hands. Instead, I turned right onto McKnight Road, so I would be on time to meet the bus.