Sometimes a mom needs to bail

even on family plans,  I think.

And run.

And she will miss her kids when she is gone–

miss seeing their wind-chapped faces

giggle their way up a mountainside with their dad.

She will think about how quiet it is

and choke on the thought of it being that way all the time…

But when she returns–

maybe ten or eleven miles later,

she will love pulling the needles of a cactus from her daughter’s shin,

revel in changing her son’s diaper for the third time that day,

leave the muddy footprints on the floor

and ignore the pant cuffs dragging their adventure across the white carpet.

Her diet will return to foods that have been grown and cultivated,

and her sleep will feel

like she’s no longer waiting for something.

Yesterday,

after they told me about the murmur,

I discovered an eyelash on your nose

lying weightless like a sea lion on a dock.

Making a wish I blew it once,

and unmoving it mocked me–

balancing through what must have been a tepid wind

and telling me what I already know:

that blowing harder doesn’t guarantee a thing.

So I repeated the wish and gave it a healthy gust

imagining I could see it fly across the

shadows in your room

and find its place among the fibers of your carpet

solidly gripping my desire.