Tag Archives: aging

I want to remember you like this

Immersed in the world of Dogman,
our dog curled against your chest,
your head resting atop the mega Pikachu pillow,
one leg dangling off the leather couch,
and laughter bubbling out of your mouth.
What I like most about you now is that
when you’re reading, you’re completely at ease.

photo credit: Rachel Liv Photography

I want to remember you like this, too:
Handsome in your chambray shirt,
standing tall with a genuine grin,
your hands anchoring your little brother’s shoulders.
Chances are high that he kicked you before this photo
— you are his nemesis and his idol —
still, you keep answering the call to lead
and love your brother (sometimes giving tough love).
I am awed by your nurturing spirit.

I need to remember you like this:
Far away from me, eyes locked on the horizon,
pointing to something unknown.
Was it the waves breaking?
The impossibly blue sky?
All I know is that, going to the beach was your idea
you asked us all summer when we could go,
and on Labor Day, the wind was whipping like crazy,
but you got your wish.

After I took this photo, you sprinted toward Lake Michigan,
your little brother (naturally) at your heels, by the time you reached
the water, your sunny blonde hair was tousled and sandy. Eyes shining,
you stepped into the tide. Gripping your brother’s hand, I watched. For the first time, I wasn’t afraid if you could hold your own, because this summer, you swam like a fish at the pool. Still you stayed nearby
(a small mercy on a day when the waves were wild),
you even came back to me the first time I called.

One day sooner than I’d like, you’ll swim away for good. Like the stones
your brother collects from the shore, I store up this truth
to revisit later. Today you’re still my boy, content at home
and also pulled toward adventure. I want to cherish you at eight —
so ebullient, so bright.

This poem is dedicated to my son Jack; today is his eighth(!) birthday. The title of this piece was inspired by poet Michelle Windsor.

Chapter 38

Today she turns 39.

Her 38th year is not one she’d ever ask to repeat. “Trying” is how her husband described it in her birthday card. Other adjectives she’d add are “traumatic” and “revelatory.” She has no shining accomplishments to toast. There were more endings than beginnings. More questions than answers. At one point, she disliked herself so much she couldn’t bear to look in the mirror.

Healing took time and courage. She left communities she loved because belonging to them was causing her harm. For a season, she set down her pen and silenced herself. She had hard conversations and made school lunches and folded the laundry and kissed her children and cried in the shower.

Does everyone have these hidden pains they just shoulder quietly? she asked God. Her faith was shaken, but she didn’t stop believing.

Hours of research and reflection helped her see she wasn’t alone. The stories she read — paired with her family’s love — mended what was broken inside. Joy returned. And with it, many wonderful moments; the only possible explanation was grace.

She discovered that some years are gentle and sweet, and other years, everything you think you know burns to ash and you have to fight like hell to rise up after the fire.

After much prayer, she picked up her pen again. She decided she’ll write another book.

At 6:15 a.m. today, her sons tumbled into the master bedroom, searching for her. Her husband rolled back the comforter and the two boys burrowed between them like a pair of puppies. Under the warmth of the comforter, she clung to her children. At least I kept them safe and sound, she resolved. I held them and they held me. That is enough.