It’s true what they say about love coming when you can no longer expect it. It’s true how it turns some odd corner you didn’t know was there and arrives in some odd costume failing even to announce itself.
It walks barefoot, quietly.
Before the Beloved was born she was not so much as a thought to me. If anything she would have been a non thought, a person I did not know, so therefore did not know to want. But then on her first series of breaths she came into my arms, her mother-my first love, lay wrecked by it all in a bed down the hall, yet I loved this baby and the baby before her with the strength of a mother’s army. There is no more powerful force in all the Universe than the warriors of love, from mother to mother to the child of a child.
A song pulled itself through me, passing my lips in a whisper like a prayer.
The song -a generational history from Scotland and Germany in Yiddish and Gaelic, from Iowa farm fields dead in winter to California beaches soaked in sun and salt. The voice of all my mothers and grandmothers sang to her.
The Beloved heard as I laughed under the Eucalyptus Rows as they rustled their skirts smelling of mint lined in a row past the Spanish Lavender. “Run with me and smile. I need someone to play,” and so she came to me.
Kyra at 7. All of life and love.
Now comes soon her brother, young Isaac. The boy who smiles. We are waiting.
The mother and her mothers. We are casting spells in starlight, the Beloved waits between us smiling with a Dragonfly on her shoulder.
Magic is being born.
Love comes on tiptoe.
He paces at the bottom of a long alley as the sun sets. The stars are lining up, comets are chuckling at their kind work. A breeze blows, a voice calls, a new thing is come to settle.
An odd corner turned, a sweet unspoken poem.
It comes when you know you can no longer expect it.