The Boy Moms at my sons’ grade school had a not-so-secret club. We were the ones who arrived early every afternoon, scanning the yard for forgotten lunch bags and hoodies. As kids spilled out the doors, the Boy Moms yelled for their boys, secured belongings, checked fists and pockets for teachers’ notes, then doled out snacks. Boy Moms Club would be in session, the Moms swapping advice and laughs while doling out bandages and warnings. Continue reading “Boy Moms Club”
Disclosure
I’m remembering the day a Loved One disclosed to me their assault. The details that stuck with me: the sound of children and birds as we looked out the windows open on a mild day; the sound of the rocking chair; the moments chosen to look over, the moments chosen to look out; the sensation of carefully picking words, as you would carefully shift your weight in the woods, not wanting to startle a deer; the feel and smell of a sweet breeze with an undertone of spring leaf rot. Continue reading “Disclosure”
Wait
The pork is being chopped
and the bok choy wokked
You’re bringing home dinner
to feed the mewling mouths at home,
but
for now – right now –
the bustly, rushy go-go-go world –
the world
needs
you
to
wait. Continue reading “Wait”
On hearing of his death, Gord Downie’s words dance through my head:
I am a stranger
You can’t see me
I am a stranger
Do you know what I mean?
On a secret path
The one that nobody knows
And I’m moving fast
On the path that nobody knows
And what I’m feelin’
Is anyone’s guess
What is in my head
And what’s in my chest
I am a stranger.
Gord Downie, The Secret Path, 2016
Now’s not the time
Show some respect.
Now is not the time, never now;
the time was yesterday.
Before.
So hurry, quick –
tomorrow’s shooter is readying.
Talk gun control today
and show some bloody respect for tomorrow’s victims.
Georgian Bay
I want to sit
on the shores of Georgian Bay
Sunny days
calm days or
full of wind and grey
Whitecaps and swells or
waves so sly
you hear the hissing sand complain
as each drop squeezes by
Days in damp suits and clinging sand
my burning soles seeking a place to land
Days with hood tied tight under my chin
Beer-cold water daring me to come in
Sitting and sitting
fingers siftingsifting sand
eyes on horizon
ears tuned to gullsong
Nose seeking sun-baked jack pine
And surprise
When my tongue licks my lips
And there’s no taste of salty sea.
Reflect
There is
no mirror
like a mirror-still river
to make you stop,
just as still,
and reflect.
Pride Day, 2017
Today I’m remembering a long-ago rush-hour subway ride. Settled into our confined spaces, pretending our butts and bits aren’t pressed up against strangers, politely not acknowledging each other’s presence. I gather little bits of awareness: the needles of a woman tatting lace, the huge size of a labourer’s lunch cooler, the Japanese lettering of a rider’s book.
Of a sudden, a switch turns on and I realize the weary middle-aged woman standing in the doorway “is a man.” Continue reading “Pride Day, 2017”
Au printemps
With every blossoming chestnut tree
Je me reviens à la ville de Paris
Strolling behind Nôtre Dame
Une glace Berthillon dans ma main.
Mothering
My Mother’s Day expectations have changed drastically over the years. In the early years, apart from handmade heart-melts from the boys, the pressure was all on my husband.
After we separated, the boys had to be trained to step up. Some years I was pleasantly surprised by breakfast in bed; other years I had to remind them, demanding ANY small token, like a cup of tea or doing dishes without dramatics. Continue reading “Mothering”