for Mother-mine

The kitchen timer rings—sharp, insistent.

Still your hands rescue loose moments,

tucking them in sea‑green trunks before they scatter,

lacing memories into scrapbooks with ribbon.

You shine tiny tap shoes for stages not yet lit,

crease maps along the path of sky,

steady shaky first attempts,

cup every timid spark until its flame stands tall,

then step back—everywhere and nowhere at once.

You plant the words,

“Listen to your heart—think for yourself,”

and I live within the hush that follows

the rhythm you left there.

I let your mantra be my guide—

steering by the compass you slipped inside

my chest. I step forward, certain

the ground will answer back,

for you’re the strength beneath my feet.

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for Boo on her First Mother’s Day

You always had it, that big heart of yours—

wide as the sky above and built to endure.

A hole they said might hold you back—

but you, like Elodie, closed the gap.

Even as girls, I swear I knew

you’d grow to be someone like you.

Now here you are, steady and sure,

with Elodie resting, safe and secure.

You hold her close, but not for show—

you’ve always seen just where to go.

You pack the bag. You think ahead.

You hum her quiet. You kiss her head.

Elodie’s smile? I’ve seen it before—

on your face, when you were four.

That bottom lip. That tiny roar.

She’s all you, Boo. And so much more.

So here’s to the start. To the way you stay.

To your first of many-a Mother’s Day.

As for me? I just breathe it in and know—

you were born ready, years ago.

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inspo: Both pieces pass care from mother to daughter and sister to sister: memory trunks in the first, a diaper bag and off-key lullabies in the second. The poems follow what each woman holds and when she steps back.

My momma has always been the archivist of our lives. Long before I understood why, she was tucking ticket stubs, MVP ribbons, boarding passes, and handwritten notes into sea-green “memory trunks,” as I like to call them. She kept the scraps after the day itself was gone, as if a ticket stub or ribbon could keep time from drifting off with it. She’s amazing like that—protective, ready to shield the soft parts of a moment but never stealing its spotlight. The first poem grows from that instinctive safeguarding. I wrote from the way her mantra—“Listen to your heart, think for yourself”—settled me growing up and still returns when I have to choose a direction.

The second poem for Libby Drew (my Boobear) draws mostly from a single evening that took place during “the witching hour,” as Libbs calls it. Elodie was teary, so Mom and I reached for the Nursery Rhyme book Granny—GiGi to Odie—had gifted her. We sang every rhyme straight through, half‑desperate, half‑delighted, until Elodie quieted (likely just horrified into silence from our singing). That moment—several generations stitched together by off-key lullabies—became the seed for Boo’s poem. Libby mirrors Mom’s instinct to comfort and preserve. Watching her mother Elodie has been like a balm to my fractured soul, healing me in ways I never thought possible. Full disclaimer: a couple of lines were saved in my “for Elodie” folder, so the poem wasn’t entirely inspired by a single evening!

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