Tuesday night with friends–
An unexpected surprise
And such a delight.
The truth is,
my mother did me teach something.
When I was small,
she let me investigate the contents of her little yellow wicker sewing box,
showing me how to make needle and thread fix the hem,
or save the button.
She taught me that you should make your own sauce,
simply because you can,
and that you fold the laundry right when it comes out of the dryer.
(which I never do).
I often forget that she taught me things things
because I remember the other things she taught me,
like how to tiptoe quietly to avoid reaction,
or that maybe some people cannot change who they are.
When I don’t quite remember the little things,
when I forget the right way to thread the needle,
or which ingredient to add to the pot first,
I miss her.
And I feel bad that I don’t remember all the things she taught me,
all the things she did for me,
because maybe some people cannot change.
My mother came from nothing.
She had nothing.
She had to become a woman on her own,
and she had to fight to be here,
and fight to let go.
So when I forget how to thread the needle,
or what ingredient goes into the pot first,
I teach myself.
I figure it out on my own,
because that’s what she taught me.
It took me two days
to get high speed internet
to write this haiku.
I won’t worry now.
All problems have solutions,
and patience is key.
I don’t know if there’s a right time for us,
if there’s a chance we missed or one yet to come.
I do know what is happening now.
Now is too big for me to hold,
and I’m just chasing each day,
like some panicked, fierce little animal.
There is something different when I step outside.
My street remains blue, green, grey, and welcoming,
but there’s this current in my spine holding me vigilant and alert.
Let’s close our eyes.
Let’s breath in and out,
and let our fingers touch.
I tightly grip these moments,
these little moments between us.
I like them so much, but still,
I’ll open my hand, palm up, and let them go.
I’ll let you go.
I keep a light heart
when days weigh hard and heavy
so that I don’t sink.