Monday, April 14, 2008

Nothing more, nothing less

I write because it's the only way I know to move thoughts out of my head. I write to make sense of the things around me, the things within me. I write because life amuses me, and I want to share that amusement. I write because I want to give people I love and even complete strangers a window into one little life on this planet. I write because I want to share the good times and bad times, for the record, so I don't forget them. I write because I write.

Today I don't want to write. Today I want to close the curtains on my life, if only for a day, and let the strangers and the friends have a little break from me, from this one little life. After all, if I'm always making information available in this space, then what reasons do friends have to call anymore? Quite simply, I've learned--none.

So today I'm going to share someone else's writing. It is a poem about parenthood by Sharon Olds. It is the best thing I can think to share with you, since the most important thing in my life is my children. Everything else? It's just everything else.

Looking at Them Asleep

When I come home late at night and go in to kiss them,
I see my girl with her arm curled around her head,
her mouth a little puffed, like one sated, but
slightly pouted like one who hasn't had enough,
her eyes so closed you would think they have rolled the
iris around to face the back of her head,
the eyeball marble-naked under that
thick satisfied desiring lid,
she lies on her back in abandon and sealed completion,
and the son in his room, oh the son he is sideways in his bed,
one knee up as if he is climbing
sharp stairs, up into the night,
and under his thin quivering eyelids you
know his eyes are wide open and
staring and glazed, the blue in them so
anxious and crystally in all this darkness, and his
mouth is open, he is breathing hard from the climb
and panting a bit, his brow is crumpled
and pale, his fine fingers curved,
his hand open, and in the center of each hand
the dry dirty boyish palm
resting like a cookie. I look at him in his
quest, the thin muscles of his arms
passionate and tense, I look at her with her
face like the face of a snake who has swallowed a deer,
content, content—and I know if I wake her she'll
smile and turn her face toward me though
half asleep and open her eyes and I
know if I wake him he'll jerk and say Don't and sit
up and stare about him in blue
unrecognition, oh my Lord how I
know these two. When love comes to me and says
What do you know, I say This girl, this boy.


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