A Glimpse of Quiet

Posted by in Motherhood Project, Poetry, Writing

The sun climbs
near white
over the dark brussel of trees
casting a pale gold light
over the shaded snow.

A chill sifts in
through the old window pane
and I notice
for the first time
evidence of a breeze.

The plastic purple flags
from last Eid
flutter between the oaks
and the glass orbs of holiday lights
dangle, frosted, in early mist.

Everything is soft
even the smoke
rising in the distance
the cold, cloudless sky
the slick steel of the chain link fence
black tires on the old Jeep
buried in snow.

I press my chin against the plush
cushion of our couch
the smell sickeningly sweet,
and unsavory

Behind me,
the heater grate squeaks
and trembles, and the movement
of children upstairs
is muted,  almost.

I send my son away
the swish of his pants
shift of the bench beneath his weight
as I try desperately to be lost
in this single moment.

He smiles and lingers
like eight year olds do
so I scowl
and he pouts and drags his feet.

I turn back to the icy glass and
it takes but the briefest moment
for my daughter to tumble down,
now she too calls for my attention
shatters the barrier
I thought my words could erect.

I wave her off
then its the shuffle of too many feet
the microwave beeping
laughter and the clanking of
bowls and spoons
the slow rip of oatmeal packets
the suction of the fridge
opening and closing again
and again

From the corner of my eye I see
the cat has begun to pace


the moment is lost.

I turn and my vision strains to adjust:

close my journal
settle into the warmth of
the misshapen couch
reemerge into the
overwhelming sounds of
our life.

Searching for beauty
in the noise of the living.