Home by Suppertime

If you're not here by suppertime,

I guess I'll stop and take the time

To write and tell you what I want to say-

Of all the times I'm missing you,

Wondering if you miss me too,

And little things I do from day to day.

Now supper's cooking on the stove

And I don't want it getting cold

Before I see your car pull in that drive.

I washed the dishes, mopped the floor,

Combed my unkempt hair once more,

And thought of things I'd say when you arrived;

Like:

"How are things today with you?

That new dress looks good on you...

Have you always worn your hair that way?"

While all the time it makes me glad

To watch your eyes light up like that;

It's hard to hear a single thing you say.

Just being with you says it all,

And it's okay if you don't call.

Since writing letters takes a lot of time,

I will be the one tonight

To write to say things are all right

If you are still not here by suppertime.

I wish that you had been there then

And seen that mama's great big grin

And, with her apron, wipe tears from her eyes

When from behind the curtain she

Saw kids and dogs and finally me

Walk in that door at home at suppertime.

Last Born

When she came home for a visit

and we embraced,

A part of me wanted to hold my last-born

in my arms,

stroke her hair,

and sing lullabyes to her like when she was a child.

And when on into the night, she endlessly chattered-

A part of me withdrew to observe

my grownup daughter in her new habitat-

with new lifestyles, new friends-

So much a part of her, so distant from me.

And when we said goodbye,

My heart cried;

And later on, in solitude,

my eyes formed a duet with my heart,

and the part of me that longed to hold her,

let her go...

Remembering

I walked around where yesterday

the feet of children loudly played,

and traipsed through moss and violets

while fishing to their heart's content.

The grapevine's hanging quietly now-

where yesterday it felt the power

of tireless hands and Tarzan yells,

that split the heavens, for a spell.

Leftover bait,

an empty stump,

the first-aid kit for itchy bumps,

some fishing line still lying there

from yesterday's entangled hair,

discarded bandaid a hero wore,

dried up sandwich,

an apple core...

All tell the tale of yesterday

when my grandchildren came to play.

Where There No Children

Who cares to clean an unused room?

Why, there's no need to lift a broom.

Last month's dust still lying there, And who's to care?

The stove's been cold a long, long time.

No need to cook for one to dine and throw leftovers out the door to pets, who beg for more.

I'd have no need to work so hard to mend that fence in my backyard for kids and dogs to roam...

Were There No Children

coming home.