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“Waiting Up”

Bernie

You are waiting up for me as usual. I’ve been out on Sand Point having a great time with my friends enjoying the magical northern night sky, laughing long, loud, and hard around a roaring fire. I feel the terrific buzz and warmth of booze. It’s way past the time I said I’d be home.

Kay

It's late. Too late. Where is he?

It was so much easier when I knew he was tucked in upstairs sleeping as soundly as the other four. Who was it that said we must give our children a warm nest and strong wings? The nest's the easy part, but, ah, to give them wings!

I know he's begun drinking. I talk to him about it, but he can't hear me. “What's the big deal, Mom?” he asks, grinning. I know alcohol has the power to bring down even this strong-willed young man, but he doesn't know that yet. I've seen it happen with my dad, the denials, the escalating family arguments, the all-too-early death. I grieve every day for losing this dear man. Is this to be the genetic legacy I pass on to my firstborn son?

It's late. It’s so late. Where is he?

I join the chorus of supplicating mothers everywhere, sitting up late into the night with wordless prayers for their children.

Sitting in your favorite living room chair, wrapped in a bright red robe, it is obvious you have been crying in the dark. We talk. Life, love, my friends, fears, hopes. It is our way of calming each other down in some strange and meaningful way. As usual, you ask me not to drink any more, or at least, not as much. To be more careful. I promise, but not really. Exhausted, we kiss and hug and say “I love you,” and go to bed, reassured that everything is okay once again.

“Conflict”

No, I wasn’t ready for his adolescence

But there he was standing in the door

Tall, lean and defiant:

I sat rocking, my dress still rumpled

from his baby hugs;

shoes run down from chasing after him;

Eyes still shiny with love of his innocence;

Arms crooked, aching to hold and protect him,

But there he stood, my son,

Tall, lean and defiant

-Kay Saunders

When I was five

an elephant sat on my chest

and wouldn’t move.

He found me lying in a field

of timothy, whistling, with a blade

between my lips,

watching sheep dance in the sky.

Every year he grew

heavier and uglier

the doctors and nurses

tried to chase him away

with needles and pills

to make me gasp

to make me exhausted

to make pain wedge itself

into deeper wrinkles.

When I was five

an elephant sat on my chest

and hasn’t left.

- Kay Saunders