Tuesday, February 19, 2013


I left home eager for
the taste of new skies.

My mother waved me off
with a kite
and a calling card
and a reminder to call on Monday.

I have called my mother
most every Monday night
for many years.

Long black wires stretch
umbilically across the land,
calling her voice
to me.

Some days I wake, eager to place
handset to ear
to hear the familiar pattern
of her words.
I have used the calling card so many times
my fingers dial it without thought.

Sometimes, when I try to remember the sequence
I have to hang up – I'm lost

but when I am desperate, 
panicky for reassurance
my hand flies
and it rings
and I shudder into the line
shivering thousands of miles
soaring into the night sky
plunging under the snow drifts,
my fears turned copper and steel
until she resurrects me
with a simple hello.

There have been days
when I have left notes for myself
“call mom”
“don't forget”
“you know she worries”
but still time slides by
When I do call she is regretful
for the week we have lost.

There are days when I can't wait
I must share
my newest crush
or devastation.
and I pour myself
into the cradle
mouthpiece to earpiece.

Some Mondays
our conversation is empty
with weather and work.

She writes lists of things
I must know
and I stack reminders
by the phone.
Some weeks the pile is higher when I hang up.

Our good-byes are long with miles
of regret
and last minute memories
of things we need to share

Every Monday
for twenty years
plus some.

how many days in between 
have I lost?

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