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Why It Is Difficult
That rough skein of hope rubs
the inside of my flesh this morning
and the wear of the seasons
rides up these tired arms--
even the laundry seems complicated
or whether to wake our toddler and insist
on another day. She will rise,
find a toy that requires her attention. Or some other way
to stay time. I'll stand impatient watching
the ridges of that discontinuity. The clock, her own
purposeful hands. I can't predict if I will fight it today,
that clammy feeling of too tired as though there were
three of us rather than two, my mother, my daughter, me.
What was it that seemed easy or simple as a child?
I don't fight the fatigue. I am out of jokes and games
and rely unsuccessfully on the stern
get-dressed-in-five-minutes-or-no-Barney
but my mother's words return. I soften.
I cajole. There's no time for TV
but there is breakfast. It lands on the floor.
My daughter stares at the dry flakes of oatmeal
and I remember instantly
the way in which my mother would lose the strength of the fight. We, too,
are always in love. More oatmeal
and then my half-smile strangling that little girl into confusion. What
will I allow?
When will I begin the howling and the pounding of my fist on the floor
beside her?
Only once in a blue moon. The moon of my mother's hands around my small
body.
Once she said she wished we "kids had never been born"
and my sister and I stopped dead
unbelieving. Now I carry my mother's endearments,
love, sweetie. I lead my daughter out to the car--
allow her the treat of blowing the horn and waking the neighbors
as I tell her, "Just one beep or else you'll wake the block up!" --
another indulgence that hides the power of that first blow
and the few months it will take before she learns
it has already done the waking, to learn
that there is a clangy, demonstrable unholiness
to everything we long for.
Julia Lisella (Click for bio.)