Through my daughters’ childhoods,
late August meant birthdays and late nights—
the house silent, the dining table cleared,
I would slip on an old shirt, tear inch-wide strips
of newspaper, mix a paste of flour and water,
and begin—shaping a mermaid, a rose,
a pufferfish where once there had been only an idea.
A decade later, in the still of another quiet night
I slip into memory, travel out and through
childhood scrapes and bursts of laughter.
Looking for joy, I land on longing.
But the joy, it is there too, in the looking.
I check my watch—half past one.
This mining has not come fast, or easy.
Each night was a step in a back-aching process.
Yes, it was tedious, but have you ever seen
a larger-than-life striped cat, a doppelganger
of your child’s adored and tattered stuffed animal,
take shape in your kitchen? Have you ever seen
such joy on a small face? Have you ever seen
your child turn away as her friends take
gleeful swings at the thing she loves most,
waiting for the candy to fall, so the memory
she can hold is of the moment
when everything was just perfect?
These were the years when I looked
forward to deepest night, when the house
was still and the hours ran so long
and beautiful, the only voice in my ear
my own, buzzing me toward dawn
and the noise that breaks in the morning.
