Sorry, Kiddo

My daughter just called from California. She is distraught: The young man she's dated for a year, her first love, has broken things off. He wants to be free to surf and hang out with his friends this summer sans girlfriend. Her heart is broken. And my heart aches. For her.

I'm a mother, a woman who's been through this a few times herself. The tone of voice is unmistakable: wrenching, shrill, verging on hysteria. I wish I could tuck her in, read her a story, take her out for an ice cream cone. Right now, she'd probably prefer a dry martini and a Valium. But I gave her the parent drill nonetheless: You'll live. You'll forget about him. Don't call. Sit on your hands. Go out with your friends...it's all advice I've been given myself. And I know it probably won't help.

What will help is time. Lots of time. Coupled with a copious amount of sitting on one's hands. I only wish I had a magic balm, like the ointment I used to rub on her skinned knees when she was little, that would work as easily on her heart.

Unfortunately, none exists. How I wish it did.

Burn

I put your name on a piece of paper,
in ink
on the back of a list.
Lit it,
and watched the smoke curl towards the sky.

A prayer, a whisper.
I want my memories to go,
go to a place where they're safe
to sleep like silent dogs.

In years past, I burned (in no particular order):
Your picture
The roses
Your picture
The letter

I packed the ashes into the tomato plants,
took the tool and turned it slow.
And laid back down to feel the spaces
in between the grass.