Mother, Magic, Meal

Voila!

There are tides to motherhood—high and low, in and out. These children, waxing and waning moons, yanking, letting go, tripping, skipping like a record. Some days I forget I’m a mother. Other weeks it is my full-time occupation.

These days the gravity is significant.

Which is why I haven’t written much in these past few months. All my children are in the final stages of growing up and going out.

London is 17 with her sights set on the sea. She’ll take a test tomorrow that may or may not open the door she desperately wants opened. I have given hundreds of hours to prepare her for this moment when she’ll put her hand on the knob and turn. I cannot turn it for her.

Eve is 16 and recently graduated. She has a job and an internship. She’s driving. She has a dozen close friends. Her life has never been bigger or more complex. We talk for hours some nights. I sit on the bed with open hands receiving burdens. Then I give some version of the same speech I always give and she nods and mouths the words as I speak them.

One of the girls is texting a boy (who’s really only a week away from being a man), and this is normal and proper but new and also labor intensive.

And then there’s the book I’ve been writing which turned into a podcast and now exists out in the world without me. The Happiest Saddest People is an adult, too.

Soon, my proverbial nest will be empty, but it is not empty yet. I find myself living in the twilight, looking back and ahead, straining to just be here.

I wrote this poem the other day to try and sort what I’m feeling as this massive undertaking called motherhood approaches its next movement.

Voila 
by JL Gerhardt  

What I'll miss when the girls are gone
is the trick of turning broken things unbroken
making missing things unlost
the magic of repair
the white rabbit of redemption

Wiping spilled milk with a kitchen towel
the jug heavy, the cup waiting, the pouring
tears washing her eyes new
as she reaches
and slurps and grins

Holding out the brush—Baby girl!
She turns, Oh Thanks! I didn't know I left it. 
She grabs the unearthed treasure
found because I know
all the x-marked spots

Crying, because of what he did, because of what she said
Not the crying, but the sitting while she cries
as she sinks into my folds
this body turned pillow—
when she leaves I'll hit the gym

But not yet.

The hat is not yet vacant.
The jug is chilled and full.
The brush is on the counter.
The girls are at the table,
eating bread and drinking blood—voila

Have a beautiful week. May you have eyes to see the goodness all around you—even when it’s tucked inside something that may seem, at first, not-so-great.

Godspeed,

JL

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P.S. Have you listened to the Holy Ghost Stories creation series?! You simply must. 12 episodes devoted to Genesis 1 and 2. You’ll marvel.

This creation series is not helping with the grief of letting go. I know, I know, God made them. But I helped a little.