You had to be there
Occasionally someone will ask
how it feels to be in a season of separation
from my children.
What I want to do is tell the story of my first,
who clung to me even without a heartbeat.
And how after the procedure,
I didn't demand to hold him
as I should have
because I was weak and shy
and somehow flushed with shame.
But that is dark,
and we like to think we aren't made
to walk in the dark.
So instead I try to render a metaphor
about how you pass by your herb garden
in the morning on the way to work
and, unless they are freshly watered
and the temperature is just so,
you don't smell the lavender and the sage.
You double check again
what you already know:
that the sun will hover over them
in the afternoon while you are away,
and that you have sprinkled in the worm castings
when they were due.
But if you really want to mother an herb,
you have to rub it between your rough fingers,
just enough that it releases fragrant oil
and not so much that it falls apart.
And you cook something nostalgically new,
or you hold it under her preschooler's nose
so she understands about soil and sun
and how you treasure the leaves
and her little nose and the moment
without words.
It's rare anyone knows what I mean.
You had to be there.
