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musings & scribbles

My Daughter

All of these clicks, clacks, cracklings of the joints count down the seconds wrapped in days waiting for you to be the embodiment of happiness, that wrapped joy just waiting to be molded by us, by our successes and our failures– and your own–, and our love of everything you do despite those.

Blinded, but feeling about with feet for the next steps we need to take, we’ll take care of you as best we can, holding on to now as much as memories; I know you’ll grow tired of them, but trust me, they’ll be worth something later– you’ll see.

Your Mom greets when you knock, hoping you’d reply, and you always do.

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1, 1, and now we’re 3.

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i’ll be on the road
with my navigator, and she’ll
be asleep, holding that
belly of hers, giving me
reason to split the lips
when smiling, and a tire will blow
or a radiator crack, and
i will have to slowly park
against the stream of highway travelers,
they who care not if we rejoin or disappear,
and i will leap to action, wake my one, and give
chase to thoughts of the worst possibilities,
letting adrenaline lead while reason sleeps,
and i will stand, breathing a chuckle, staring
inside myself at the scene of a situation
i didn’t bother to think of, but know i’ve got
all i need to handle it and get back in my seat
and go.

preppin for the eventuality
of everything falling apart around me.

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You’ve got
those closed eyes
and fingers;
I’ve got
a smile which
lingers.

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Counting the months,
But I know they are but days
In wait of your presence,
Turning thoughts to years
Of which there will be many,
Ours, these memories forming
In my head, dancing, with a wiggle,
As you do in your mother’s belly.

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She held her breath,
Giving in to the situation,
Letting the veins expand and the vocal chords twist to garble a voice that only brings happiness.
She held her breath,
Clavicle raising, fingers finding
Way to the silver crosses across her neck,
Grounding her from
The shock we knew was coming,
Giving us a start on this life, round 3.

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He fell out and broke apart
After she opened the box.
Lost all his value, sure,
But dents gave him character.

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The pizza box,
Placed carelessly
Above the trash bin,
Has, “Thank You!,”
Printed ever-so-nicely
On the side facing out.

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She is so beautiful.
Even in a darkened room,
Lit by the glow of a phone.

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I could have been a better son,
A better man, a better husband,
So I could be a better person
And be a better father, a better dad.

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