Yesterday I searched 

for a way to merge 

the disparate lanes 

of motherhood

One, where I didn’t miss a thing. 

And this. 

Compressing the moments between 

Sundays and Wednesdays

into memories. 

Quickly, 

before the custody clock ticks away. 

When I want to feel sad 

and proud

I return to old videos 

where my daughters are themselves

and I am all theirs.

Lucy’s lanky legs dangling

from the edge of my old bed. 

Radiant as she sings 

and strums guitar.

Annie Rose spinning 

on the beach, arms extended 

in inherent grace.

Today I am thankful 

for movies 

and brief exchanges.

Both remind me

They once were 

and still are 

mine.

I’d failed to make a proper plan–
one where we wear ironed shirts and share an enviable meal.

Instead I’d allowed you to sleep, and to sleep,
because you were tired (and to be honest, I was enjoying my own company.)

And when you did finally wake you blamed me
for ruining the evening (actually, I was having the time of my life.)

Your email this morning said you’d rather not get hurt
I know exactly what you mean.

So, tonight, I am eating the bacon-wrapped scallops,
sautéed spinach, baguette warmed and buttered.

And I am drinking what’s left
of Thursday night’s Prosecco

I’m sorry you were hungry and that you’d slept more than you’d wanted.
But I’ve found that caretaking and carousing don’t have to be paired.

A toast! The lessons were delightful; I am going to be fine

I am enjoying this meal, in my kitchen alone
and the peace and the quiet, and the dog by my side.

Should Old Acquaintance be forgot,
and never thought upon;
The flames of Love extinguished,
and fully past and gone:
Is thy sweet Heart now grown so cold,
that loving Breast of thine;
That thou canst never once reflect
On old long syne.

Title and final stanza borrowed without permission from Robert Burns. I hope he doesn’t mind.