New plateaus. What will they do with each of us when we arrive? How long can we stay? This weekend: My daughter graduates magna cum laude, the last of two from the nest. I’ll be back next week with wild asparagus stories; yellow and red striped bumblebees; learning that crows are the watch guard for the void. As in–the place where things are born. As in: begin. As in: over. Again and again.
About Nests and Springs in Montana
My daughter mentors young school kids. She’s 18,
eating chocolate cream pie for breakfast, but I’m a mom
braced for empty-nest pain, racing through
my late-for-work routine, Yesterday I was with the kindergarteners.
setting out water for the dogs, coaxing the toilet to stop,
checking my emails. Now that we have internet, no one
ever calls. And there was a little boy in the back of the class.
There’s a photo of my mom shoveling 14 inches of spring
snow, wearing her grandson’s fur-lined bomber hat. So I helped
him with his Disney poetry. My dad is proud of her. A quick note
from my sister. Sunday frostbite. Mickey Mouse Mickey Mouse.
Monday sunburn. Two bum lambs in her warm kitchen, forty four
in three sheds. You are number one. I find lunch money, turn
the furnace off. His teacher thanked me later for sitting with him.
No one ever has. We run outside to start our trucks, something sparkles
on our lawn. We’re going to be late, aren’t we, Mom. I nod my head,
we hold hands and watch. A crow is plucking Christmas
tinsel from the grass in our front yard.
First published in Albatross four years ago.