Pierced Ears

My Dad’s rule: pierced ears when twelve,
Some form of bat mitzvah, coming of age.

I spent the five years prior
Skirting the spirit of the law:
Taped paper clip chains,
Taped pop bead patterns.
Did such creations improve my looks?
I thought so.

After a time, some took pity
And gave me clip-ons.

I remember one got lost once,
When I was with friends
Near the Botanic Gardens’ Japanese bridge.

My mother, shopping sometime later,
Came across a junk basket, with random items
Each a quarter. Inexplicably, she looked through it

And found a matching clip-on earring,
A little kiss from a God who cares
For a little girl’s vanity.

Half-Birthday

Most celebrate a birthday.

In Disney’s Alice in Wonderland,
The characters sing,
“A very merry un-birthday to you,”
Which could be sung every other day of the year
Except one. The half-birthday.

When I was young, when asked, I would answer
Precisely my age. After all,
Twelve and a half is not the same as twelve.

And while I realize most women don’t wish to own
Their age past a certain point,
I prefer my thirties to my twenties,
And am pleased to distance myself, at least a bit,
Both from that painful youth and
From the assumption I am already in my forties.
That’s my husband, not me.

I am now thirty-five and a half.
I own that additional half year with joy.

Slumber Party

Three boys decided to sleep on the floor tonight.
One wants the door open partially, to let in light.
That opening affords the baby quick entrance.
Peals of joyful laughter stream constantly,
Increasing in volume until the baby is screaming
With delight at being with his brothers
In this dark room on the floor.

With such unanticipated gladness,
How can anyone enforce a schedule?
And why would anyone want to?

Sister on the Way

I remember, shortly before my fifth birthday,
Driving through the heartland of America in winter.
My Dad, recently unemployed, had taken a temporary job,
And we had stopped for Christmas at my Grandparents’
Before driving on. But the drive was not smooth.

We pulled over and my Mom did something out the door.
And again.
The third time, my Dad said, “I think that confirms it.”
Morning sickness had come, and my sister was on the way.

Why do I have a clear memory of the frozen corn stalks
And the thin layer of ice over all, that single impression,
When I have no clear memory of my sister for months and years?
Are the memories of pacifier and giggles actually my own,
Or simply overlays of photos in the albums?

My sister was younger enough that our worlds didn’t mesh
Comfortably until she was in college.

They mesh comfortably now.
I am thankful.

Winter Coming

The night air had a sharper feel it,
So I put the baby in footie pajamas.
Last time he wore them,
His proprioceptive understanding
Was not formed, apparently,
But now he could see that the
Green cuffs were on his wrist,
The blue foot coverings on his feet.
He touched wrists and feet repeatedly,
Soaking up his expanding knowledge of self.

Then, snuggly warm, he slept well.
I woke in a chilly room and knew
Winter is coming, even without
The thermometer’s precise
Fifty-six.

Creation

One might say,
“I feel dirty.”
God formed us
From the dust.
I think it’s safe
To assume
He knows our
Dirt.
And loves
Anyway.

American Flag

I started throwing up on Capri.
I staggered through Pompeii.
We left earlier than expected
And drove to Rome, that paradise.
And I threw up and threw up,
And got the runs, until I felt like
A spigot flowing out of every orifice.

We went to the hospital and received
The diagnosis: food poisoning
And bambino.

I had taken a test before we left.
It was negative, so I had blithely
Drank my way through two weeks
Of more wine than ever before or since.

But now I was sick and didn’t care
About the Sistine Chapel or
Michelangelo’s Moses,
Let alone Pisa or the Cinque Terra.
I just wanted to be home.
So we flew standby as soon as possible.

And when we landed at Dulles
And I saw the American flag,
My heart leapt for my homeland
As it never had before or since.