an auntie's letter to the future

Dear...
Luke
Josh
Fiona
Eliza
Adeline
Magnolia &
Alexander Paul...

Last night I witnessed history. Approximately 75,000 people crowded into Mile High stadium to see Barack Obama accept the Democratic party's nomination. We waited in a line that stretched two+ miles and snaked through parking lots, up and down hills, across busy streets...it was mayhem, but it was also very very exciting.

A big theme of this presidental race is change...and keeping our sights on the future, promising one another that our children and our children's children will not inherit an earth that is completely devastated by environmental neglect nor blown to smithereens by people who believe that the United States is a den of hell and should be destroyed nor at the bottom of the economic barrel with a zillion dollar deficit and no healthcare for millions of hardworking Americans.

Everytime I hear Obama reference children (as a reason to CHANGE the course of this country), I think of all of you. I do not have children of my own, and don't know if that will ever happen. There are certain biological absolutes that I cannot overcome in order to have a child. (Ask your parents about that one. And while you're at it, just for me, ask them "Mom, Dad, can you tell me about the birds and the bees?" They'll LOVE that one.) But my being childfree does not mean that I am without cause to fight for the future...to the contrary, I feel a great responsibility to those that I consider my "love children." You know who you are. You may be the closest thing that I know when it comes to seeing a child grow up and become a responsible, well-rounded adult. I am so excited about that! I cannot wait to see what becomes of all of you...and I hope I'm still a part of your annual celebrations...I hope I can always be a shoulder on which you can lean or cry.

YOU are why Barack Obama must be our next president.
YOU are what he's thinking of when he speaks of Hope...you and his own daughters.
YOU are a blessing in my life and in Auntie S's life, too.
YOU are tomorrow's leader, tomorrow's policy maker, tomorrow's community organizer, tomorrow's artist.
YOU must carry on the work that is starting NOW and will continue for many years to come.

Malo boys, I have an engraved metal piece that your mom gave me--it reads "what would you attempt to do if you could not fail?" All of you:

Failure is not an option any more. With every step you take in this world, you must keep your faith and conviction close at hand. Faith in things unseen but powerful; conviction in those beliefs instilled in you by your parents. Be bold and be honest; don't fear difference, because that which is different from us can teach us; leave no trace; respect your elders; work hard and play harder. Much harder.

When I enter the voting booth in November, I will do so surrounded by the spirit of each and every one of you. I will see, in my mind's eye, your smiles and hear your laughter. I will recall holding your small hands in mine, so soft--I will remember your rumpled, warm bodies waking from a nap, the smell of your sleepy heads, the way you leaned in to me when we read a book together.

I will vote for Barack Obama in this election because I believe he is the one to secure a safe and prosperous future for all of you. Please let history prove me right!

I carry you all in my heart. Always.

Auntie Meghan

putting the kids to bed

Here's a concept: friends
that bring out
the addictions in you.

Are they good friends?
Bad friends? Must you shun them
in times of growth
and reluctant letting go
of the old familiars?

There is, most of all
history
or in this case
twenty years of herstory
to fall away from
and so many stories yet
unsung.

Going on forty, one would think
you and I would have met
wellness, or at least made
an aquaintance. Same goes for forgiveness.
The frayed screen, the coughing,
all the raw edges. Left behind
with our blessing, unutterable.

But for those magical,
sweet auntiehood moments
especially at night,
when you as Mom are toast,
wrung out from chasing
and no'ing
(and the five year old
kicks one too many times,
uses words like hate)
and one of us
designated aunties
(or both)
attempts the near
impossible
and to our delight
and surprise and relief
lull the boys to sleep.

Victory that rests
deep in the heart,
that small boy back beneath
my hand, his twitching
and squirming over.

But for the fact
that the supreme joy
of putting the kids
(who feel safe here)
to bed won't change.
High or not. Eventually
we string together
a calendar of not todays

and realize we're
breathing deeper,
much like self soothing
per the parenting manuals,
a skill we never
mastered as children
but found decades later,

deep within ourselves,
despite the inhalation
despite the slim chance
that we could learn
such old new tricks.

the work of friends

Recently my cousin asked me "how do you have so many friends? I think you're amazing that way."

I was somewhat taken aback by her comment, as it came out of the blue. I think I responded with something like "I work at it."

And I do. Human beings are my species and I am fascinated by them, how they interact, how we interact with one another, how we may try and convince ourselves that we don't :need: other people to make us feel whole and loved, when in fact we are not meant to be solitary creatures. We cannot live in isolation from our fellow humans for too long; the mind plays tricks on us, and we begin to believe our own mythology. Which is dangerous.

Our friends are our audience. They can be harsh critics. They can also heap mountains of praise on us when we least expect it and most need it. And then there are the friends who, barring death, will not give up on us. I thought I was that kind of friend until I realized that I was throwing away energy that could be better used elsewhere. And so I am reevaluating my friendship work ethic, and asking hard questions of myself that go something like "are you getting morsels when you really need a full meal?"

See, I got food in there somewhere.

babies'r'not'us

this post removed by the "holier than thou" author

Eighth Month, Seventh Day

August cast you haloed, black
atop the water. A flyfished figurine
fused to a rock, bellied down.

Below the surface, smolt team and turn
tentative. Downstream.

Below the surface, Coho surge
silver, solitary.

Upstream. Upstream.

Frozen under the sun
wind whips and gravity pulls
keep you floating, still not knowing:

coming, going?