Thursday, A Little Before the School Bus is Due
How do I write about how I got from washing dishes in the kitchen
watching sparrows fighting and mating and nesting through the window over the sink
hands damp with soap bubbles and bits of last-night’s dinner to here,
curled up in the yard, knees against my chest, sharp blades of dry grass
poking my cheek? There must have been a moment when I
put down the dishes and opened the door, walked down the stairs
and consciously decided to lie down on the grass, assumed this position, it all seems so important
not that I know how I got here, but that I don’t move from this spot.
Some time this summer, I will build a bat house with my daughter to hang
in the tree, just above where the sparrows have all built their nests. I can see my hands
working with wood, expertly, without splinters or pain or mistakes.
Somehow, I’ll get near the top of the tree, find only steady branches to balance on
nail them into place. My daughter will be so amazed, I can picture her amazement at my
carpentry skills, my tree-climbing skills, my gentle rapport with nature.
I am the best mom ever.
I close my eyes and see all of these actions so clearly I’m sure
they must already be done, there is no need to build bat houses
or paint extra bird houses, or nail anything to anything. If I can get
from the kitchen to the back yard without remembering even taking a step
then these things I can imagine in such detail, with such clarity
must already have happened without me, too.
watching sparrows fighting and mating and nesting through the window over the sink
hands damp with soap bubbles and bits of last-night’s dinner to here,
curled up in the yard, knees against my chest, sharp blades of dry grass
poking my cheek? There must have been a moment when I
put down the dishes and opened the door, walked down the stairs
and consciously decided to lie down on the grass, assumed this position, it all seems so important
not that I know how I got here, but that I don’t move from this spot.
Some time this summer, I will build a bat house with my daughter to hang
in the tree, just above where the sparrows have all built their nests. I can see my hands
working with wood, expertly, without splinters or pain or mistakes.
Somehow, I’ll get near the top of the tree, find only steady branches to balance on
nail them into place. My daughter will be so amazed, I can picture her amazement at my
carpentry skills, my tree-climbing skills, my gentle rapport with nature.
I am the best mom ever.
I close my eyes and see all of these actions so clearly I’m sure
they must already be done, there is no need to build bat houses
or paint extra bird houses, or nail anything to anything. If I can get
from the kitchen to the back yard without remembering even taking a step
then these things I can imagine in such detail, with such clarity
must already have happened without me, too.
Holly Day has taught writing classes at the Loft Literary Center in Minneapolis, Minnesota, since 2000. Her poetry has recently appeared in Tampa Review, SLAB, and Gargoyle, and her published books include Walking Twin Cities, Music Theory for Dummies, and Ugly Girl.
