Thursday, October 19, 2017

Building a palace.


She wanted a little room for thinking;
but she saw diapers steaming on the line,
a doll slumped behind the door.

So she lugged a chair behind the garage
to sit out the children's naps.

Sometimes there were things to watch:
the pinched armor of a vanished cricket,
a floating maple leaf. 

Other days she stared until she was assured 
when she closed her eyes
she'd see only her vivid own blood.

She had an hour, at best, 
before Liza appeared
pouting from the top of the stairs.

And just what was mother doing
out back with the field mice? 
Why, building a palace.

Later that night when Thomas 
rolled over and lurched into her, 

She would open her eyes
and think of the place that was hers
for an hour -- where she was nothing,
pure nothing, in the middle of the day.

(Daystar, by Rita Dove)

This poem speaks to me on such a deep, personal level that even after having it pinned to my kitchen bulletin board for months and reading it on the daily I still can't finish it without crying. The poem was a gift to me from a friend who knew we were having sleeping issues in our home and also knew that I consider a few minutes of alone time the ultimate gift, a necessity really to stay sane while navigating motherhood. Oh what I wouldn't give for that euphoric sensation of being "pure nothing" in the middle of the day, for building castles in my imagination. As it stands, I'm grateful for the short silent moments at night between screams and shrills from our girls--I'll take what I can get. But until calmness fills my afternoons again I will continue to read this poem, wipe the tear from my cheek and be grateful for authors who paint beautiful images of magical things for me to enjoy.

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