Something else I found while combing through the files on my desktop and thumb dive: a poem I wrote for Paul in the fall of 2006. Again, Owen was two, Barrett not yet imagined. Mornings were heavenly: coffee, NPR, getting ready for work/school at a leisurely pace, playing with Owen some before getting her dressed for daycare. Paul would prepare his lunch, the same every day--an apple and a small container of peanuts. Every day we'd kiss him goodbye and watch at the door as he backed his truck down the driveway and headed down the valley road.
This poem came to me on one such morning. They are the only lines of poetry I've written in more than 10 years. I didn't even give it to Paul until this weekend. He liked it, so I thought I'd share it with you.
One a day
Each day you take an apple
from the crisper,
lift the child in one arm
briefcase in the other,
keys and fruit balanced in there somewhere,
for later at your desk when you find
your mind wandering
to this happy goodbye,
my swift kiss, the child’s
toss of blond hair, duck, and giggle.