Heidi Beth

a warm winter afternoon,
barely dancing leaves still securely attached
to a small bush at the center of our picture window,
as if they belonged there forever.
patches of sunlight framing the neighbor’s damp,
leftover autumn leaves, my sister-in-law walking by
on her way home, looked up at our house,
not knowing I waved from the couch.
she could not see me here, waiting
and not waiting, listening and breathing in ideas
both deep and mundane, the significance of night dreams
about poverty, violence, and deception beside plans
to bake brownies for New Years Eve.
around the edges, filling in the cracks,
a gentle whisper, my mother, cancer, her grief
and anger passing, determination growing,
but not what you might think, form a new color
that is drawn through every other moment,
a silvery teal, beautiful really.

Boys will be boys.

Every time I hear it, my heart breaks. No harm intended by the speaker, after all, boys will be… what?

I don’t know the answer.

I had a new thought beyond the way the conversation often plays out when I challenge this assumption, when I mention that I was more active, louder, climbed more trees, than both of my boys together, that each of them, around the age of three, asked me to tie a bandana around their shoulder like a sling, then walked around nursing and nurturing a baby doll for days.

Last night, blanketed in darkness, eyes glistening as my heart traveled back in time, I remembered the pain my older son experienced when he found out he would not be the mother of his own children. He has always been closer to my husband, and is far more like him than me, but he was looking forward to the day when he could nurse his own child (how many fathers wish they could be this close to their babies?).

My sons like tools, play with trucks, build with Legos obsessively, talk about weapons and battles and love to run at the park, but if there’s a sand box, within an hour of arriving, my older son has begun building and digging with a plan (little brother at his side). Their energy and purpose always attracts other children. Both my sons invite the others to help in whatever way fits the age of the newcomer. Countless afternoons and early evenings, I’ve been treated to this joyous scene, approached by delighted parents who compliment my sons for being so gentle with their son or daughter, for making them feel welcome and needed.

“There are exceptions of course,” I’m assured, as the usual conversation (about boys just being the way they are and all that nonsense) winds down. To this, I have no answer that I know how to express politely. I’m working on it.

There is a danger in saying, “That’s just like a boy.” It too often excuses unacceptable behavior, like being destructive or violent, or simply playing ball in the house (behaviors that are not gender exclusive). Honestly, if I had been born male, I would have been regularly called All Boy, and my tendencies to rough house with little consideration for the limbs of my companions may have been encouraged rather than addressed (or at least not so sternly dealt with), because boys, we’re assured, need to get it out you know. I do know, as most children need to let off excess energy and strong emotions, but why the double standard?

And what about the feelings of the boy being labelled, especially when the speaker sounds disapproving. The boy is stuck being a problem solely based on his gender.

Here’s the piece I thought of last night:

I would not think of saying to any of my in-laws, “Girls will be girls,” or “That’s just like a girl,” when one of my nieces cries longer than I’m used to a child crying, when they’re feelings are hurt by something that seems to be no big deal to me, and probably wouldn’t even be noticed by either of my boys, when they giggle excessively at the antics of one of my children, or preen before a mirror, hairbrush in hand. I wouldn’t make such a blanket statement period, because it’s ridiculous, hurtful, limiting, and in this enlightened age, most of us are aware that girls need to be empowered, not defined by their gender.

We need to be just as careful with boys.

I lean close to the mirror beneath fluorescent lights
and wish I hadn’t given myself a clear view
of every wrinkle and pore,
age that doesn’t show up in photos
taken of tanned faces beneath summer’s sunlight five years ago,
but fine lines were forming then.
I think about apple cider vinegar,
drinking spring water, unfolded laundry,
and I don’t allow my thoughts to wander, to my mother.
Time divulges answers to not-so-secret questions, little by little.
I can not say, when she is better,
and I cannot say there is a sure end-road called illness,
as she is gaining (perspective, energy, appetite, a couple pounds),
and doctors rarely factor prayer and nutrition into their diagnosis,
but it’s like raising children, or being alive anywhere, any place,
we are so often unpleasantly and pleasantly surprised
(the world is not meant to cushion us, but to grow our spirits),
no one can say how things will turn (which is more important,
the outcome or the process, or the marriage of the two?).
I can hardly go there at all.
Not for sanity-preservation, I just don’t see the point today,
and I want to be aware, here, in God’s given moments.
And if she recovers fully (a real possibility), I’ll keep this new habit
of kissing her on the cheek, because she smiles every time.

one all-day in pajamas, beneath uniformly light, and later dark gray skies,
wrapped in her husband’s too-big autumn jacket,
her hands poking out of tattered sleeves, feet on the heater,
soft rain tapping the roof top, near silence indoors,
her family is embraced in the cool Texas fog of late November.
bundled boys, huddled over make-believe, don’t jump
(as boys, they say, are prone to do when cooped up too long).
she looks outside, again, wonders if the sky will break open,
but really she imagines the beautiful, prayed for,
promised changes playing out. it is too much to hold in a moment.
she quiets her mind (for now),
coaxing her thoughts back to the gravel and trees in view.
breathing in patience, exhaling the strain of waiting, she thanks God
for her boys, their father, and nothing to call them away from the nest
before bedtime (hours away)

I see the box in a shadow behind closed eyelids,
a portrait of my computer screen,
its light etched, for the moment, in my vision.
I hear the fan’s whir beside my son.
It stirs a thin sheet of humidity, sounds like childhood.
My son’s spoon clinks the sides of a small, white teacup
as he scrapes up the last bits of chili.
My other son, nestled in their bottom bunk behind a door-less wall,
speaks in soft syllables, giving a voice to two-inch, plastic figures
in a world he and his brother created.
The sky rumbles as an airplane passes miles above our heads.

Fear circles, attached to nothing,
floating there like it belongs, an untouchable shadow.
I reach for word following word,
tears prick the back of my eyes,
I feel the universe stretching out endlessly,
and time – the never knowing one minute to the next
but pretending I do – has a voice, faintest whisper.
Her message is a mystery.
But hovering, nameless fear is only cold seeping in through cracks (an unwelcome stranger).
The rooms of my house are bright,
a warm fire burning on the hearth.
I’ll put on an extra poem,
stretch old Mary’s quilt across my lap,
set down my pen
and listen to the crackling.

there’s little to say before midnight.
i could speak if you were here.
we would play chess until clouds began to race
over a sky-high moon,
and we stop to lay beneath the stars
and whisper, isn’t it amazing

I like a cool-weather, sunshine-bathed morning,
slowly drinking steamy dark roast,
each sip a prayer, Thank You
Writing and blanket-washing top today’s agenda
though comforters can wait until tomorrow
if my pen hits a hot streak and takes me home
to my hiding-heart little girl.
Memories don’t get lonely, but maybe they do.
Lonely wasn’t a word my young mind conjured on long days,
lying on our orange shag, waiting for the phone to ring,
waiting for anything and I didn’t know what
but that I would be sure when I found it.
I can write a path to her side, tell her it was worth the wait,
and all the confusion along the way,
sorting through the debris of a sick society
to find the jewels, then holding tight.
I’ll thank her for having a good grip on our dreams.
If she’ll consent to a journey, I’ll escort her through decades,
clear a space on the couch, make her a cup of hot chocolate,
and we can reminisce, though not a word be spoken.