Tell Me


Tell me she won’t remember my frustration after she dropped the pretzels.
Tell me she won’t remember how I promised the playground and then it rained.
Tell me she won’t remember the exhaustion in my voice after I tucked her in the third, fourth, fifth time.
Tell me she won’t remember the deep sighs and the rolling eyes.
Tell me she won’t remember the frantic race out the door only to be early.
Tell me she won’t remember when she wanted to bring bankie and we left him in the house.
Tell me she won’t remember errand after errand on our one day of the week together.
Tell me she won’t remember the one time, really, only once, that I skipped the pages in Horton Hears a Who.

And tell me that she’ll remember the morning cuddles, licking the spoon, afternoon trips to the library, the coffee shop, the playground.
Tell me she’ll remember the laughter, the endless hours drawing, the lemonade on the front step.
Tell me she’ll remember me, mama bird, feeding her, baby bird, one long worm of spaghetti from my mouth to hers.
Tell me she’ll remember the good.
Tell me she’ll remember the goofy.
Tell me she’ll remember the love.

Goodbye, 1952

Say goodbye to the mint green tile, the peach and yellow accents and the crumbling walls.



I won’t miss the 80s lights or the cracked grout.


And I won’t miss the broken shelves in the medicine cabinet or the too-large-for-the-space sink.


Or that nightmare of a glass shower door. Really, eleven years we’ve been together. See ya!


This Morning


I can hear her downstairs when I get out of the shower.
“Daddy, I gave Bogey a treat because he came inside.”

Thanks, Honey. Let’s go upstairs.
“Excuse me, Luna. Excuuuse me… “
“Is she in your way, Honey?”
“Yes, she has a big butt.”
She stumbles upstairs and walks right past me, through the bathroom and into our bedroom. Her hair is in shambles, her mismatched pajamas too short and two loose at the same time. She climbs onto the bed, hands me her granola bar to open. I hand it back to her and sit down, brush the hair out of her face.
“Morning, Love. Can I see your pretty face?”
She looks up at me, her eyes wide.
“Can I see your pretty smile?”
She smiles wide, her baby teeth suddenly small in her four-year old mouth. She cuddles closer and rests her head in my lap.
“Can you show me surprised?”
Her mouth opens wide, her eyes look up towards the wall.
“How about mad?”
She struggles with this one, tries to keep her lips in a straight line.
She drops her lips into a frown, but her eyes glow with delight.
“How about a smile again?”
It’s wider this time and she giggles.
“Good morning, baby. Good morning.”