Like children fresh from baths
I want to pat their heads
Cup each skull under my palm
Feel the silky-soft spongy give of their new-growth hair.
Their squirming will not deter me from kissing each temple
Breathing in their newness
Then
With my hand still on top
I want to point them to their beds
And release.
Moira Dunphy, 2012
Sitting in the front row
and my heart stops.
Stuart Little is in danger
Grave Danger
-and he doesn’t know! But we know!
The tiara on my 4-yr old niece
twinkles as she leans forward
eyes and mouth wide.
Every muscle taut
her wand hand grips her tutu
and her other stretches out
fingers splayed wide
to reach Stuart
to grab him, to save him, to safe him.
My heart stops at the naked yearning
shining from her.
Sitting on my sofa
and my heart stops.
The Portapique memorial
-a year? A full year?!
and the people
who loved
twenty-two people
offer twenty-two vases
of long-stem white roses.
As a Mom bows her head and clasps her hands
my heart is a yearning 4-year old in a tiara
reaching with all my might.
She awoke before she knew she was awake.
Before she opened her eyes, she would know the day that lay ahead. The water that lulled her to sleep at night would talk.
Sometimes she’d wake to the regular pounding of hard waves. A good day. They’d lure Dad in and he’d show her how to body surf and let kids climb him and jump. But the wind would make Mom’s eyes sharper, looking for blue lips or shivering. Then she’d have to spend time on dry sand, playing castle, pulling apart puzzle weeds and dominating ants.
The drip-drip-dripping of drops off leaves was a sweet good-morning, even if it meant no lake time. She’d bundle up on the long screened-in porch, playing cards with cousins and looking out at the crooked pine silhouetted against the grey water. She’d listen to the grown-ups tell stories and play euchre. A day of scheming and laughter, radio and hot chocolate.
If the wave sounds were varied, this was a harder day to figure out. There’d be water time, but the weather could change on a dime. If they saw the line of rain marching across the lake, the cousins would line the shore, head starts arranged by age. Someone would screech “GO!” and they’d tear off to race the rain up to the cottage.
If the waves were lap-lap-lapping, sighing through the wet sand – oh, this was the best wakeup call. She’d be changing into her bathing suit right after breakfast and wearing it until forced into pjs at bedtime. She’d join the kids wheedling the adults grudgingly awake and sipping coffee. Someone would eventually agree to act as lifeguard.
When the lake was still, she could stay in the water all day. If her cousins ran out to lie on towels, she’d look for minnows. If she kept her feet still long enough, they’d come in close and nibble her toes. She’d dig her feet into the squishy sand then peek her toes up and wiggle them. She imagined it fooled them into thinking they were juicy worms. Sometimes she’d join the minnows, palms down and pulling her body behind her.
The clear mirror water would show her shells and rocks that hadn’t washed up on shore yet. The real treasures, the ones no human had touched.
She never wanted to dry. When tired she’d sit where water met shore. She’d feel the gentle push-pull of waves, watch the slow progress of sand mold itself around her. She’d grab fistfuls of wet sand and try to keep it from weeping out between her fingers. When the sun warmed her she’d go back in.
She’d only be forced out of the water for suntan lotion or snacks. She’d be the last child retrieved off the beach for lunch. Mom would tightly wrap a towel around her like a sarong and carry her back up the path to the cottage. Mom would rinse her feet in the ceramic tin bowl that lay beneath the tap, a beachy welcome mat. She’d be planted on a bench beside the noisy cousins eating sandwiches and potato chips on paper plates.
She’d shiver and nibble and listen.
