Relative Motion

Unfortunately, I think that poetry is becoming an increasingly less appreciated art form, but it is something that I still enjoy quite a bit, so I'll likely be posting the occasional poem. For some reason, while the boys were eating breakfast this morning, I was struck by just how quickly they're growing up. Maybe it was something in the way Trystan said "Mo nana pee" ("More banana please," not a reference to a urinating Grandma named "Mo"). Anyway, it got me thinking about how watching your kids grow up is rife with conflicting emotions. Pride and nostalgia. Love and a little sadness. I was reminded of this poem I wrote a while ago, inspired by one of our trips to the playground when we still lived in GA. Occasionally, I'd ask my husband to hang back with one of the boys so that I could get some alternating one-on-one time with each of them. I'd often bring Cameron (my camera...yes, we name lots of inanimate objects in this family) along, hoping to capture some of the moments I knew I'd treasure most from their childhood, freezing them in time in order to turn memories into something tangible. That is exactly what the picture below is to me--a memory I can hold close to my heart, both physically and emotionally. This is the magic of photography, another passion of mine. It is so amazing to see the world through the unadulterated mind of a child, to whom such simple experiences seem like The Greatest Things in The World. I am so blessed to be able to share these moments with my boys, and I wouldn't trade them for anything. There will come a day when going to the playground no longer fills them with ebullient anticipation, when being pushed on a swing is "boring," when hanging out with Mama is kind of lame. So when people wonder aloud how I "put up" with toddlers all day, my answer is simple: because they still allow me to.

Relative Motion

He swings blithely.

Vitality, sunlight, and the curved

black vinyl warm

his cheeks, anointing

his flesh with the beaded blush

of youthful wonder. He is lifted

to the sky, suspended

for an immaculate moment

in a pocket of atmosphere and giggles

before gravity

pulls him back towards earth.

He soars over the world

and sees it with wide eyes.

The wind blows

his white-blonde hair heavenward,

tufting it about his head

like a halo of dandelion seeds,

engulfing him in a downy

cloud of hopes, wishes,

promises. He pulls

me with him,

his momentum infectious.

His knuckles are white

and tight as clenched teeth,

grasped around braided metal.

Soft palms stifle

the groans of rusted iron, fingers

pressed into the concavity of steel

loops. Overhead,

birds chirp, echoing

sounds of unadulterated freedom.

And with each oscillation,

the distance between our hearts

opens and closes,

opens and closes,

opens and closes.

He is a pendulum—

a poignant reminder

of life’s brevity.

And is it the wind, or time, or

my hand

that drives him forward,

into the intangible?

And when the motion

finally slows—just enough

for him to recollect my presence,

and reach out to me—

is it only my imagination,

or is the boy I lift

in my arms clinging

to me a little less tightly

than the one I put in

moments ago?