Miss the Fall

When fall came 

And the leaves began their slow change 

I had to remember 

To pay attention. 

The green subtly turning to yellow, 

Until suddenly, 

Whole trees turn a brilliant red. 

Without our permission. 

When did her pants shrink? 

When did her vocabulary grow? 

The oranges are bright this year 

As we drive down these side roads. 

A multi-colored array of beauty 

Some unturned, some almost bare. 

When did she begin to climb so high? 

When did her hair get so long and light? 

We go for walks and talk about the trees. 

The leaves, the river, 

The blanket that crunches 

Under our feet. 

Our jackets are now on chairs. 

The trees out front are empty, 

We take out our boots 

Everything waiting for winter. 

When did she grow so tall? 

When did she learn to sing so clearly? 

Fall is coming to an end. 

Trees now stand naked. 

More brown than color. 

More empty than full. 

Even though I tried. 

To watch each color change. 

I somehow feel, 

I have missed the fall. 

She is completely new 

But still the same. 

Just like the trees,

So strong and brave. 

Next year I must remember 

Not to blink. 

For when I blink. 

I miss it all.

Belong

"You belong" I whisper to my daughter as she sits, studying the world.

You belong here and now,
And there tomorrow,
And wherever you will be in the days after that.

The air you breathe belongs to you,
And when you exhale you give it back to the world.

You belong in the space you take up.
You do not need to puff up,
Or shrink yourself down.

You belong with your voice.
No need to tear others down,
Or allow yourself to be trampled.

You belong as the size you are.
No smaller, no bigger, just right.
Each moment of each day.

The paths you are on are yours to walk,
Where others have gone,
And will go.

You belong on your own,
And connected to others.
You belong wandering alone,
And here, next to me.

Each moment you exist,
You are not lost.

You belong.
You belong.

Stretch Marks

My third trimester comes with three dark purple stretch marks on the bottom of my stomach. A gift to ruin the bikini body I never had in the first place. The internet tells me 15 ways to get rid of them with lotions and oils and products that will leave me with perfect skin.

Meanwhile, the baby flips around once again.

Tips on food and fitness, on labor and delivery, on breastfeeding and vaccinations all come rolling in. “Have you done this?” “Here’s a list of the things you should do before you give birth.” “Top ways to love your husband before you have a child.” “What birthing classes are you taking? What books have you bought?”

And the baby pushes her tiny head so I can see it through my skin.

I sew skirts and burp cloths. I make a registry. I read the 5th article on un-medicated births and how to make sure everything goes back to normal after birth. They say, “you’ll never know the difference if you do these 10 things”.

But the baby kicks and then punches.

Back to normal. Do I even want that? How can that be when the world is given one more life? How can anything go back to normal? Because even now I can feel her move and I've seen her tiny shape. And she has already changed everything.

So maybe I won’t mind the stretch marks, the sagging skin, the extra rolls. How can I mind these things when I’ve already been given a miracle?

And once again, she rotates inside of me.

Dear Mother

How did you know to sing to us?
Each night before we slept,
Keeping nightmares at bay.

How did you know when I needed help?
Trying to climb over rocks,
Trying to catch up to everyone else.

How did you know to let me be?
Sleeping under blankets on the couch,
Cocooned in warmth and safety.

You knew when to laugh
And when to hold.
You knew how forgive
And when to scold.

Now there is this tiny creature
Growing inside of me.
And I do not know how
To be the mother I am supposed to be.

How will I know when to stay
And when to let them go?
How will I know the right way to love
And how to help them grow?

I am so afraid that I cannot fill
This role I have been given.
One that you seemed to do
Without doubt or indecision.

Maybe all I really need
Is to remember how you helped me through.
With guidance and care,
I hope to be as great a mother as you.

Morning Snapshots of a Loving Husband

In the morning, when he leaves, he smells of coffee as he kisses me on the cheek. Barely awake, I see snapshots of him, a photo book of his morning. He wraps me in blankets which I have tangled into an incoherent mess in the night. I look up to see him moving the fan and closing the blinds so I can get a few more hours of sleep. He has already showered, he has already made coffee, he is all ready to go as he bends over me and whispers, "Hey, I'm heading to work," so I will know where he has gone when I wake.

I barely remember these moments. I only see them as fragments, still a dream. I do not thank him as he goes, I do not remember when he returns home, and yet, every morning he wakes to kiss me again.

Be Whole

Normally, I fly.
In flying there are separate sections, there is sadness at leaving, peace in the midst of an airport, and joy at arrival. While all these things mix interchangeably, flying over the land there is a separation from the leaving and the coming, from the sadness and the joy.

This time, I drove.
In driving there was loss each second as I watched the landscape fade away into unfamiliar, re-familiar, darkness, and light. Every minute was filled with a goodbye: goodbye Riverside, goodbye California, goodbye heat, goodbye western mountains, goodbye, goodbye. And every minute was filled with hellos: hello snow, hello family, hello old friends, hello flat flat Midwest fields, hello, hello.

Everything was felt more deeply as we drove. Anticipation mounting over the 33 driving hours, sadness declining over each new state. And while the pain was greater, the joy was greater too. As if the two had made a bargain to replace each other with the same amount the other had left. Like the sun rise after a night with only a sliver of the moon, like the sudden downpour of rain after months of drought, like the height of a mountain after the depths of the valley. This is beauty, this is tranquility, this is the juxtaposition of life's ups and downs knocking all at once.

And as we drove I heard my tires say, "be whole, be whole, be whole" with each rotation. "Be whole" in the sadness, "be whole" in the joy. "Be whole" in the loss and in the gain. "Be whole" in the memories of the past and the hopes for the future.

"Be whole, be whole, be whole."

Five Pounds

“I want to lose five pounds” I tell my husband and he shakes his head.

He shakes it because he knows that I really mean I want to be skinny. And five pounds this month, does nothing to change the five pounds more that I will want to lose after, and the five after that.

There is no contentment to this cycle. There is always more to be fixed.

He knows this because he knew me when my cheeks sunk in, and I could buy small sizes even in Taiwan, and I had size zero jeans. He knows that even then, I wanted to lose those five more pounds. Always five more pounds.

What he doesn't know is that I still have those size zero jeans, hidden in the back of our closet for the day that I will be able to wear them again.

“You know I think you’re beautiful just the way you are?” he whispers to me and I look away.

I look away because he has to say these things to me. Because we are married and what else could he say, he knows better than to tell me he wishes I looked like someone else.

My soul has always swum with discontentment, and the more I think, the bigger it gets. This perfection is impossible to attain.

He knows better than to say that he wishes there was a gap in between my thighs, and that I never had rolls when I sat down, and that my neck was longer. If he said these things that I’m sure he is thinking, he knows my heart would break. He wants me to lose those five more pounds.

What I don’t know is that he threw the jeans out, because he doesn't want to see me try to be that small ever again.