Dear Ailis

Oh, baby girl! I miss you every day.

You would be almost two years old, now. Running around and chattering. You would be all dimples and curls. You would be shouting "Mine!" and "NO!" at every given opportunity. You would have your birthday right around Christmas, but I would never let anyone try to combine the two. You would still smell baby-sweet. You would still look perfect and innocent when you were sleeping. I would let you wear fairy wings and rubber boots to the grocery store. I would take your picture all the time. (You would be used to it by now -- the lens in your face, the shutter click.) I would be terrified when you ran a fever. I would wish you still fit in the sling, so I could keep you close to me; but I would celebrate your independance too. I would worry about your daddy's history, and whether it would come to bite us someday. I would find it difficult to understand how my love for you could surpass my hatred of him, and of what he did... the consequences he left us with, that you and I both paid, though it was never your fault, or mine.

I'm sorry you couldn't stay. Our life would not have been easy, but I would have loved you, you know. I think you do know. I think in your brief life you loved me too.

lost

I've never even seen your face, but I would know you anywhere. You are a piece my heart, flown away, and it hurts to live without you.

just you and me

Let's travel the world! Let's fly in aeroplanes, let's sail clear across the sea. Let's go and marvel at the pyramids in Egypt, and let's put our feet in the Nile. Just you and me, babe.

Let's go simply everywhere. Let's do whatever we want.

From Blossoms (Li-Young Lee)

There are days we live
as if death were nowhere
in the background; from joy
to joy to joy, from wing to wing,
from blossom to blossom to
impossible blossom, to sweet impossible blossom.

identity crisis

I wish people could see that even though my arms are empty, it doesn't mean I'm not a mother. Because I am a mother, and my empty arms are aching...

mission

All of my life, a constant searching for the sun.

backdrop

And to the north, beyond the border, great mountains throw their jagged silhouettes up against the bleached blue brilliance of a late summer sky.

begonia

You're not even from here, are you? Yet flourishing so far from home, decked out in the brightest red and richest green. (You are making the best of it, I see). You are not sensitive or shy, like the hothouse flowers, or the African Violets. You are lovely -- and brave.

I wish I was more like you.

thought

Am I tired of being alone... or tired from it?

running

I'm being hounded, chased by a dog that I never quite catch a glimpse of but I can hear him crashing along behind me, feel his breath and his slaver coming hot and fast on my heels. I am small. The grass is as tall as I am, and taller in some places. I push through, but it is slow going and I'm sure I will feel those jaws close about my shoulders at any moment -- but suddenly I am out, on a steep bank that slopes down to still and silent waters. I leap, but the stepping stones have been strewn always just a little too far apart. My foot slips almost every time, and my right shoe is soaked. I am tired, each step less sure than the last until I stop, stranded and alone in the midst of a vast, motionless body of water that stretches as far as I can see in every direction. In focusing on where to put my feet, I lost sight of where I was trying to get to, and that far bank that seemed attainable when I started out is gone. I have no idea which way to turn.

I can't help but feel that whoever designed this path, whoever laid these stones, either dislikes me immensely, and wishes me to fail, or does not understand how small I am, how hindered by pain and by fear, and does not realize that I can never make it this way on my own.

blank

Sit down with my notebook and blue ink pen all purposeful before me, staring at the blank pages remaining blank and staring back at me. Stupid paper! How am I supposed to know what I'm feeling if you won't tell me a thing?

Incomplete Lullaby (Lisa Mitchell)

blind

I wish I was a tyger. I feel more like a mole.

sick inside

Love turned to hate tastes like poison...
And I think I am dying of it.

The Tyger (William Blake)

Tyger! Tyger! burning bright,
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire in thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand dare seize the fire?

When the stars threw down their spears,
And watered heaven with their tears,
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the Lamb, make thee?

afternoon

Sitting under early apple trees,
eating turkish apricots, painting my Heart out...

The air is delicious today, cool breezes passing over my skin every now and then like a lover's kisses, waking me gently without a sound. It is so quiet! Bumblebees drone nearby, lavishly overdressed for the weather in saffron and ebony velvet. Feigning shyness, bright strawberries peek from behind their saw-edged leaves, a wanton shade of red, luscious and forbidden.

cheated

I woke up too early, unwanted knowledge crawling over me like a handful of millipedes. I feel ill. All morning my heart has been racing, my skin flushed rosy red; but there is a cold, slimy feeling in the pit of my stomach; I imagine it full of languid black slugs.

I don't know why, but I really thought it could be different this time. I don't know why you think the only way to end things is by making me cry. But maybe you're right.

I really hate it when you're right.

in the headlights

Skittish as a doe, I'll shy away
from footsteps approaching or
even the most kindly meant words.

Staring straight ahead I'll
try to disappear, to be
invisible in a corner or
near the cupboards,
on the back steps or
behind my own closed door.