Early Art

Abraham at five would make a single line
Across the paper and tell me
That Buzz Lightyear had just flown off.
Fifty pages a day, sometimes, until
He went through a ream of paper,
A box of reams.

At six, he drew stick figures. Stick figures
Doing everything conceivable.
Some of them wore hats.
Looking back, I can see the development:
A curved line to suggest a hill
Behind the snowman;
A striped stick figure that I know is Hobbes.

I pulled out his stack of early art today,
And he went through it all for the first time
In years. Paper after paper, examining each
With the eye of a developing artist,
Patient with the artist he was then,
Not discarding the whole stack in boredom,
But rescuing fewer than forty sheets
From all those hours of diligent effort.

Anything at All

On Christmas, I allowed myself to
Do anything at all.

And I was surprised to find that
I didn’t make cinnamon rolls

But instead played
Bach for an hour or so,

And found colorful scraps of paper
And pasted them in a book,

The kind of art I feel competent doing,
A mash-up of pictures and colors I like.

At the End

At the end of Jake’s life,
Suffering from dementia,
A friend asked him
If he remembered that he
Had been a POW in Japan.

Incredulous, Jake shook his head.

The friend asked if he remembered
Being a missionary in Japan.

Alight now, Jake spoke passionately
Of his love for the Japanese, for his Savior.

Forty months of torture left
No permanent mark,
But the love of Christ shines
Through dementia.

Fill your mind well.

Average

The three boys in the next room slept through it all,
Until Joe’s first cry. Then Abraham awoke.
Phil took him downstairs, to the room right below,
Where his parents had also slept through it all.

For years I felt like a superior woman,
Giving birth so quietly the sleepers around me slept
Undisturbed. Until a midwife said, “That’s common.
During a homebirth, everyone is the best they can be,
As they welcome the new life. So some sleep deeper,
If that’s what’s needed.”

With those few words,
I am relegated again to just an average woman.

Sensitivities

Since Lent, my face has been red, inflamed.
My sister figured out that it was not a breakout,
But a rash, symmetrical, around my mouth.

I have tried for nine months to determine
The dietary cause. Some foods, on eating,
Make my face flare instantly.
But which one item in the multigrain chip?
Which one food in the locally made kraut?
Which one nut (or two) in the granola?

I finally gave up, and paid the big bucks
For the precision of bloodwork,
Teasing out the intricacies of sensitivities.

I learned the results today. Of the foods I eat
In a given year, I list the ones now restricted,
For three months to forever,
In order of the personal grief,
A lament, of sorts, for the foods that
I shall not enjoy.

Cow’s milk/butter/cheese
Spelt
Cane sugar
Pinto Beans
Cabbage
Cocoa
Apples
Maple sugar
Soybeans/tamari
Vanilla
Sesame
Basil
Parsley
Zucchini
Cashews
Blackberry
Goat’s milk/feta
Dates
Mango
Honey
Pecan
Beet
Grapes/Raisins
Black beans
Sardines
Strawberry
Cayenne/red pepper flakes
Cucumber
Pear
Plum/prune
Radish/horseradish/mustard greens
Spinach
Cantaloupe
Cloves

A Thing of Beauty: Advent XXV

Among specific requests for Christmas, I asked for
Something pretty. This is open to interpretation.
And my aesthetic is personal and pronounced.

I opened a small piece of art
Made in Uruguay, with a quote handwritten
That translates, roughly,

Because after everything I have understood
That what the tree has visibly in bloom
Thrives of what is buried beneath.

I finally understand
That I see a tree’s flowers
Because of what is buried, unseen.

And I sat and cried
Because this is so resonant with me.
My aesthetic is known.

Watching: Advent XXIV

Caleb climbs onto the window ledge
And looks out at the animals
Drinking, grazing, loafing.
“Cows,” he tells me, beaming.

These animals have been beasts of
Sorrow, frustration, disappointment
For me.
And yet, as they close out their tenure here,

I feel the regret that Caleb’s delight
Will no longer be right outside the window.
But that’s the way of the world:
No unalloyed joy.

No birth without death.