Death of a Chicken

It happened suddenly and tragically: The bright red head herding the young white birds into the pen, the ever helpful green eyes complying and heaving the heavy hinged roof of the coop to view the chickens inside, the two of the seven flying up in his freckled face, the fear that they would scratch or peck, and the weight of the wood and tin buckling his seven-year-old arms and the father yelling and the mother coming running, and, finally, the roof dropping shut and the bird dead in the roost and the tears--the big, earnest, incandescent tears the size of his heart, and the angry red tears shooting like bullets from her semi-automatic eyes--and then the cold popsicles to cool the heat of the moment, and the questions: do chickens go to heaven, and do animals come back to life, and of course the question where, oh where will we bury her?

An hour later life was all super heroes and princesses, sidewalk chalk and lego blocks. And somewhere in a far corner of 500 acres a white chicken lay, under the heavens and not in them, a dead and singular lesson to two students alive and moving on.

Nothing Gold Can Stay

(with apologies to Robert Frost)

the wildflower dress, the
combat boots and Camels--the
amber pack crumpled with the
pyramid crumbling on the edge of a coffee table--the
chiseled chin and
thick fingers through James Dean hair and
second-hand smoke through the
lips
those lips.

the metaphors and miasma poison me still

Club Motherhood

In my early twenties I remember my body aching to be a mother. Literally. It was physiological: my womb wanted to be full. But the stars knew it wasn't just my uterus that was empty; I was empty other places. And so my children waited.

They're school-aged now, and--as I have for each segment of life that I can remember--I feel like I reside on the perimeter. This time it's the perimeter of Club Motherhood. Unlike the homeroom moms who greet me at kindergarten class parties with half-smiles and exchanged glances, I don't show up in homemade dresses with peter pan collars and cardigans. I don't own snowman earrings or giant jack-o-lantern sweatshirts. I do not bake cookies.

I wear skinny jeans and tank tops and beat-up denim jackets. I teach my kids to notice stuff. Like the sound of wind roaring through the mulberry tree. The industry of the anthill. The size of the sky. They think God paints sunsets, and trees own costumes--one for each season. They eat tomatoes that they planted and fish that they caught. They know the sound of a whippoorwill.

I'm not supermom: I try and fail daily. I reside on the perimeter of Club Motherhood, but my kids are at my center. They are kindling for the light inside me, and most days I can't believe they picked me--here and now--to be their mom.

Sunsets and Finger Paints

I see millions of sunsets under my million-acre sky. So do my kids. I've convinced them that sunsets happen because God gets out his paintbrushes and paints colors across the sky each night.

Two days ago my five-year-old met me at the door with purple fingers and freckles: "Look mama. I painted a sunset for us just like God does."