The MORNING is more than it seems

The day begins with only normal, everyday stuff - until you think about it as you would if you were telling a story, to a friend, and from that friend comes a little more detail until finally you have an entry in your journal for the next possible book of Poetic Memoir. Sincerely, Nancy

POETRY IS LIFE - POETIC MEMOIR - only a few minutes ago you left - wide eyes, wide grin - you never took the jelly beans because you whispered in my ears they fell onto the floor last night, I was sleeping - half of them are probably still on the floor - as he continued to pick out those he liked. "But, these are fine, they never fell on the floor, don't worry."

So I thought how perfect this visit was, an overnight with two little boys, and started in an instant to write so I would not forget - so storytellers, memoir writers, poets, journalists, it's the now you want to capture in the raw, without hesitation, before it gets into the webs of memory you stored away, now you have to write anything, only to remember when, what, and who - the why will come along in due time. So, in a few minutes I decided it was time to write about how different a few little thinks could be from little boy to little girl -

BEFORE YOU LEFT
Before you left - (told boys are all the same)
fingernails needed cleaning, cuticles pushed back
daylight shows off mounds of hair
I ask, "Did you pick out your own glasses?" you
told me yes -
hurrying to complete the bunnies black hat -
it's there where black scratches on a bunnies hat
dug deep to the bottom of those nails -

Mom arrives; never knew you had a party in
thirty minutes - so I grabbed you from the stool
held your hands below our faucet told you to
scrub, hard.
Boys - think splashing is so funny.

I could not disregard crayola crayons beneath
your nails - still telling you to sit still as one finger
at a time you giggled, as a silverey, thin blade
seemed to tickle the tips of your fingers.

You switched hands while others waited -
so impatient are adults, we all know boys are
boys -
extraordinary, curious, and tossing balls of paper
across my face, whispering a bee is flying over
my head.
A finger to his lips, (it's clean) he told me to stay
still - everyone tip toed closer - closer now -
as laughter filled the air - as if counting seconds
together balls of paper disappeared down my back.

The phone rang. My daughter doesn't want him
at this party where live snakes, everyone is holding,
her voice disturbing, we can hear her yelling into her
husbands cell - as he took his last sip of coffee.

So he talks so quietly, without a care, then lifts
boy two onto his lap - pushes the button of the cell
and laughs - he giggles too. He thinks it's funny
his mothers doesn't want him at the party, it has these
long snakes held by all the children, and no one has a
parent at their side.

He lifts boy two from my lap - where I was still
inspecting his finger nails - his were more the
shade of red, beneath a bunnies ears.
Takes his time, his dad, tells us thanks and gathers
all the bags. He too begins to laugh, "Clean nails,
combed hair, holding onto his birthday present for
his friend, and his Mother screaming no - we have
to go.

The little guy, he calls me, tells me, "It was wicked,
he got to hold a live snake - but now he was rolling
long pieces of play doe, it was bright green - and
told me, "My nails aren't clean, now Mother won't
forgive me. I asked what he was doing - he told me
punching eyes into a green head, a goblins head,
"The nails are green, but not from a snake," his voice
became softer. "Play dough - only that stuff."

I guess boys are wicked too. The side of wicked
which in their words, in their world, means fantastic
quite the opposite since wicked never was too cool
or something to brag about when birthdays were
celebrated with a birthday cake, instead of snakes
and cupcakes.

SO - here we have the story teller, telling someone on the phone, a neighbor, good friend, etc., about the snakes - turns into the poetic memoir of a Morning with Your Son or Grandson. Whatever. But it began like any other day, and ended in a solid
thought - but as I said, how I love to leave the reader guessing.

Sincerely Nancy - Sunday Morning - 3/25/12