Forget about the drive, the backed-up traffic across

the bridge, the stop-start continuing for the four more miles

there, all the while the bone spur in the right hip stabbing

every time my foot presses down on the gas or harder still

on the brake so the pain goes down my ankle. And

then the roughly 30 minutes scanning for a parking spot.

Forget about what’s next — climbing five flights, cane

in hand for balance on each step at less than a snail’s pace.

Forget the accusations and counter accusations, the raised,

stymied, or suppressed voices swallowed in the darkness,

the harsh words replacing those that once were always gentle,

the goodbyes with a hesitant touch if any at all, the never

given invitations, the lack of understanding — all tearing the fabric

of love, until its threads were rent with few left to hold what’s there.

Then sing the smiling face of she who was born just

three months ago, the same age now my daughter was

when first, at the airport, she glided into my waiting arms.

Sing how she’s swaddled in her father’s arms, or

on the floor gazing up in wonder at the spinning colors

above, or swinging in and out of focus, taking everything in.

We discuss with detailed knowing how this came to be,

but that this ever came to be is still a mystery we stand before

unknowing, swaddled as we all are from the beginning

in the arms of what some call God. Just sing!

Don Lasko is a retired high school English teacher living in Hightstown. He holds degrees from Oberlin and SUNY Stony Brook and has taught creative writing and poetry at Summer Institute for the Gifted. He is a member of Nancy Demme’s writing group at Twin Rivers Library and of Princeton Pro Musica.

Facebook Comments