How to Hold a Son
by Amy D. Unsworth
For a newborn the bend of your elbow
supports the head, the untrained neck.
Note the bunched face, the pulse
visible at the crown. Prop your arms
with a pillow. Don’t sleep.
At two pretend to be a zebra,
prance on all fours. Become
accustomed to carpets, grass.
Rediscover your knees, sitting
cross-legged. Laughing, he’ll
collapse into your arms. Hurry.
The five year old will bring tulips,
stemless. Or a ladybug. Find a bowl,
a stool, a magnifying glass.
Stand behind, peer at the dusting
of pollen. Hold the glass steady
to see spots and wings. Inhale.
At nine, tousle hair.
Carry the backpack, tuck in
an extra chocolate. In front
of friends, smile. Read about
dragons or mummies. Sneak
your arm around, let it settle.
Pull him close.
In the teens, persist.
Wrestle, slap backs. Knock first.
Attend ballgames and cheer.
Say it’s for your own sake.
Recall the ache in your arms,
the throb of his heart.
Let him leave. Learn to sleep.
From:
Not What I Expected: The Road from Womanhood to Motherhood
And then there is this, too!
Editing work, completed.
Thanks to Donna Potts for the opportunity!
Donna L. Potts and Amy D. Unsworth, eds.
Region, Nature, Frontiers: Proceedings from the 11th International Region and Nation Literature Association Conference.
Newcastle upon Tyne: Cambridge Scholars, 2008.
ISBN 9781847184597.
Thanks to Donna Potts for the opportunity!
Thoughtful Gifts, Long Remembered.
Looking back over my childhood a few gifts truly changed how I envision life: a pair of Appalachian clothespin dolls and a book of Willa Cather's short stories from my aunt, and a theatre experience planned by my grandmother. Other holidays came and went, in a blur of Christmas trees, the angel-hair drench tree of my grandfather's house, the children's tree downstairs at an aunt and uncle's home, the white tree displayed in the front window, the year my brother and sister and I decorated a real spruce tree with toys and while my parents were away only for it to crash down in the middle of the night. Now, I think of gifts for others and remember, too.
Something about the plain, tiny-featured dolls that evokes my childhood, beyond that particular year Christmas. I recall autumn weekends at Spring Mill, gathering sticks for a fire to roast marshmallows, the visits to the pioneer village, the cold water from the spring trickling by mossy banks. The pioneer apothecary shop with jars full of herbs and remedies, the bonnet-topped ladies in long dresses strolling in and out with their baskets, the stonewalled garden with the vegetables laid out in neat rectangles. The tidy utility of rooms meant for living, cooking, around a stone fireplace. The smell of woodsmoke on a clear night always made me imagine that pioneer life, those wooden cabins, and the damp chill of morning seeping in through the chinks as the fire burns low. Making do. My aunt had lived in such a cabin, north in Canada, to me a land of mystery and bears. The clothespin dolls now stand guard over my collection of antique books; they still make me smile.
The book of Cather stories too, brings to mind the pioneer days and the juxtaposition with urban society. The heartbreak and pride of working the land, the apparent ease of city life, and the squalor and hardship which was too often the true experience of the immigrant, the pioneer, the fool-hardy soul who hoped for more than the earth or the city was willing to give. Just south of where I grew up, there is a historical marker for Pigeon's Roost, where settlers were massacred men, women and children all. I grew up with a sense of being connected to this history, to the sense of adventure and possibility inherent in moving on and trying a new life elsewhere.
The practical side of me knew that pioneer life was hell on women, the old graveyards are full of babies, and women who died bearing them, the tin-types show women worn to a nubbin, aged beyond their years with sickly children peering out from behind their skirts. In Kansas and elsewhere on the prairie , they made lives out of the dirt, living in sod houses, trying to break the hills before the flint in the hills broke their will to try. It was cold in Kansas last year after the ice-storm, without electricity, in a modern home equipped with a fireplace--bone cold. Imagine an entire winter, with no light, little heat, tucked like a mole in the side of the hill. Imagine the damp, the heat escaping each time someone passes in or out, the impossibility of clean. The practical side understands why Paul, of "Paul's Case" made the fateful decision to run to the city, to the lights, the theatre, the warmth and abundance.
Tickets to the theatre,too, were a good gift: the lights and the wonder. The memories of dressing up, of occasion. That particular Christmas I was four, with a red long dress trimmed in white lace holding my grandmother's hand, following along, mesmerized by the width and the breadth of theatre, by the people gathered there to wait in the dark, for the storybook brought to life on the stage. There, then, anything was possible.
Something about the plain, tiny-featured dolls that evokes my childhood, beyond that particular year Christmas. I recall autumn weekends at Spring Mill, gathering sticks for a fire to roast marshmallows, the visits to the pioneer village, the cold water from the spring trickling by mossy banks. The pioneer apothecary shop with jars full of herbs and remedies, the bonnet-topped ladies in long dresses strolling in and out with their baskets, the stonewalled garden with the vegetables laid out in neat rectangles. The tidy utility of rooms meant for living, cooking, around a stone fireplace. The smell of woodsmoke on a clear night always made me imagine that pioneer life, those wooden cabins, and the damp chill of morning seeping in through the chinks as the fire burns low. Making do. My aunt had lived in such a cabin, north in Canada, to me a land of mystery and bears. The clothespin dolls now stand guard over my collection of antique books; they still make me smile.
The book of Cather stories too, brings to mind the pioneer days and the juxtaposition with urban society. The heartbreak and pride of working the land, the apparent ease of city life, and the squalor and hardship which was too often the true experience of the immigrant, the pioneer, the fool-hardy soul who hoped for more than the earth or the city was willing to give. Just south of where I grew up, there is a historical marker for Pigeon's Roost, where settlers were massacred men, women and children all. I grew up with a sense of being connected to this history, to the sense of adventure and possibility inherent in moving on and trying a new life elsewhere.
The practical side of me knew that pioneer life was hell on women, the old graveyards are full of babies, and women who died bearing them, the tin-types show women worn to a nubbin, aged beyond their years with sickly children peering out from behind their skirts. In Kansas and elsewhere on the prairie , they made lives out of the dirt, living in sod houses, trying to break the hills before the flint in the hills broke their will to try. It was cold in Kansas last year after the ice-storm, without electricity, in a modern home equipped with a fireplace--bone cold. Imagine an entire winter, with no light, little heat, tucked like a mole in the side of the hill. Imagine the damp, the heat escaping each time someone passes in or out, the impossibility of clean. The practical side understands why Paul, of "Paul's Case" made the fateful decision to run to the city, to the lights, the theatre, the warmth and abundance.
Tickets to the theatre,too, were a good gift: the lights and the wonder. The memories of dressing up, of occasion. That particular Christmas I was four, with a red long dress trimmed in white lace holding my grandmother's hand, following along, mesmerized by the width and the breadth of theatre, by the people gathered there to wait in the dark, for the storybook brought to life on the stage. There, then, anything was possible.
How it happened
Much of the contents of the box were no longer treasure,
maps and diner placemats from long forgotten journeys by car
pamphlets and sights to see and contests by mail.
In her diary, the days marked mostly by weather, warm today,
much cooler this week, in a hurried hand. Thomas
MIA since June, the war department notified Elizabeth
on July 8th, no word since, the first entry for the year 1945
and in August in so few words, we've offered terms to Japan
and then a few days later, Papa's home early and off tomorrow
to celebrate the signing of the treaty--VJ day,-- the boys
will be home soon,and Papa's finishing the glass front cabinet
before he must go back to work. Then fall, with telegraphs
and holiday wishes, and the year ends, as it must, with snow.
maps and diner placemats from long forgotten journeys by car
pamphlets and sights to see and contests by mail.
In her diary, the days marked mostly by weather, warm today,
much cooler this week, in a hurried hand. Thomas
MIA since June, the war department notified Elizabeth
on July 8th, no word since, the first entry for the year 1945
and in August in so few words, we've offered terms to Japan
and then a few days later, Papa's home early and off tomorrow
to celebrate the signing of the treaty--VJ day,-- the boys
will be home soon,and Papa's finishing the glass front cabinet
before he must go back to work. Then fall, with telegraphs
and holiday wishes, and the year ends, as it must, with snow.
Post-date Billing
All night I toss and turn, dreaming of the doctor's office,
of the treatment room, of the intersection of the IV and
my veins. The half-awake sleep of chemotherapy
floating between the mind's desire to dream of health
and the physical body's agony. There are days I can't
remember: the first day of treatment, the day I refused
any drug they offered to calm my stomach, to relieve
anxiety, pain. The day I swore at the onocologist surrounded
by his interns. I do remember the following morning, the suprise
when the doctor asked if I had decided to live. I don't remember
asking to die. Last night, months from treatment, the anxiety
came back. This time, the dream of sickness, awaking
to health, to scars healed and fading, to home. I cannot
drink enough water to wash the taste from my mouth.
of the treatment room, of the intersection of the IV and
my veins. The half-awake sleep of chemotherapy
floating between the mind's desire to dream of health
and the physical body's agony. There are days I can't
remember: the first day of treatment, the day I refused
any drug they offered to calm my stomach, to relieve
anxiety, pain. The day I swore at the onocologist surrounded
by his interns. I do remember the following morning, the suprise
when the doctor asked if I had decided to live. I don't remember
asking to die. Last night, months from treatment, the anxiety
came back. This time, the dream of sickness, awaking
to health, to scars healed and fading, to home. I cannot
drink enough water to wash the taste from my mouth.
The Second of Autumn
I’ve been guilty of spoonerisms today. I raise my hand to ask a question and I cannot speak aloud in a lucid manner. I tip over my trongue. Don’t listen to my mind racing ahead. On paper, on pixel, I manage just fine, thank you.
Some days one throws out a line, and draws in nothing but a wet hook. Today, splashes, ripples around me. I cast again. I cast again. The ducks chuckle in their low voices. The cars hum by, the faces anonymous blurs. In this moment, I gather them to me.
We speak of Narcissus and the Echo. Vanity. Wanting too much. In the muddy pond, the geese float by in legions. The leaves fall catching the light, each year I am caught anew by the subtleness, each year agog. Listen to this, I say, waving the sheaf aloft.
Some days one throws out a line, and draws in nothing but a wet hook. Today, splashes, ripples around me. I cast again. I cast again. The ducks chuckle in their low voices. The cars hum by, the faces anonymous blurs. In this moment, I gather them to me.
We speak of Narcissus and the Echo. Vanity. Wanting too much. In the muddy pond, the geese float by in legions. The leaves fall catching the light, each year I am caught anew by the subtleness, each year agog. Listen to this, I say, waving the sheaf aloft.
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