enough
for me to snap a few picturesâ
the âbeforeâ photos,
we call them.
I bring the Nikon up to my eye
and line up the shot.
Samantha snuggles into her father,
leaning her head on his shoulder.
He circles her
with his arms,
resting his cheek
against the top of her head.
Have there ever been
two more wistful smiles,
two people so happyâ¦
and so sad?
Michael,
who never cries,
squeezes his eyes
closed.
WHEN I HUG MY DAUGHTER GOOD-BYE
A part of me
is almost hoping
sheâll refuse to let go of me,
like she did
when she was five years old
on the first day of day campâ¦
On that sucker-punch morning in June,
Samantha locked herself onto me
like a human handcuff
and began to sob, chanting a single phrase:
âHow can you leave me with these people?
How can you leave me with these people?â
She was so distraught
that her question began to make
an odd sort of sense to me.
How could I leave her with these people?
How could I trust these strangers
with my babyâs safetyâ¦?
Now, as I clasp Samantha to my chest,
it takes all my strength
not to lock myself onto her.
How
can I leave her
with these people?
I WILL MISS HER
I will miss her more
than fireflies miss summer,
more than the drum
misses the drummer,
more than the wave
misses the shore,
more than the songs
miss the troubadour.
Sheâs been my hip hip
and my hooray.
I will miss her
more than a poem can say.
THE CAPTAIN HAS TURNED ON THE SEAT BELT SIGN
For seventeen years
there have been three of usâ
enough to fill a whole row.
Now,
thereâs an empty seat
between my husband and me.
A Grand Canyon
between my husband
and me.
For the rest of our lives
itâll just be
the two of us.
Just we two.
Just
us.
THE TAXI DROPS US OFF IN FRONT OF OUR HOUSE
Michael and I
trudge up the front walk,
lugging our suitcases
and our dread behind us.
The darkened windows of our house
watch us with gloomy eyes.
Even the roses
look glum.
I turn the key in the lock
and shove open the door,
bracing
for the ringing silence.
But insteadâ
I hear Aliceâs voice
wafting in from the speaker
on our answering machine.
ââ¦he was so stupefyingly boring that I fell
asleep in my soup and nearly drowned!
And then he wanted to have sex with me,
can you imagine?
â¦Anyhow, I want to hear all about
what itâs like in that empty nest of yours.
But you guys are probably
doing it on the kitchen table right now,
so Iâll let you goâ¦
Call me when youâre done!â
Michael and I
would be laughing right now
if we werenât
so unspeakably bleak.
OUR PEPPER TREE IS DEAD
Root rot
got her.
But I canât bring myself
to ask Michael to cut her down.
She stands
outside my office window,
the breeze sighing
in her skeletal branches,
her feathery leaves
long gone.
Sheâs dead, but her brittle arms
still yearn toward the sun,
latticeworking the yard
with a sad spindly shade.
Michaelâs been spending hours
sitting out in the yard, sketching her.
How can I ask him to chop her down
and cram her bones into plastic bags?
How can I ask him
to grind her stump?
How can I ask him
to remove every trace
of she who once held
my daughter in her lap?
SAMANTHAâS ROOM
I walk down the hall
and pass by her room,
then take a step back
and open the door.
Omigod!
Whatâs happened here?
Whereâs all the stuff
that should be on the floor?
Gone the scattered books and papers.
Gone the heaps of dirty clothes.
Gone the mounds of soggy towelsâ
who would have thought Iâd ever miss those?
All those years
I spent complaining,
nagging her
to clean it allâ¦
Why do I suddenly
yearn for the chaos
that used to drive me
up the wall?
AT THE GROCERY STORE
I reach for a bag of Ruffles.
Then stop myself.
Now that Samanthaâs gone,
who will eat them?
I trudge from aisle to aisle
not putting