On Wednesdays

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On Wednesdays


the kids come home, and my heart

is outsized. My heart directs Memory to play 

again and again, over laundry and car clean-outs, 

how the younger two run toward me, 

arms spread eagle, smiles sparkling. 


Memory sings as I sweep the floors

about how their welcome contrasts with my oldest's

steady stroll, her half smile's flash, as the heat

of my my arm meets her rounded shoulders, 

or her quiet "hello, Mom," reaches my ear.


Memory paints that first baby-circle as my zoom background. 

Uses broad strokes of my impatience,  (The other babies began 

to smile at their moms much sooner, remember?) Memory responds

with little dabs of my petulance. Five long months I wait

to see that baby's first grin, and when it comes, 

it is never predictable.


Five long nights I wait, 

but every Wednesday has been different. 

I whisper to my heart "keep your expectations low. 

You never know who they've become 

in the time spent apart." My heart understands


the assignment: to be so free of expectation

that she become warm sand, a welcome

that receives all shapes of water exactly

as they are, come what may.


Memory, though, clings to a water

that isn't cold. 

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