It has been a year since it last happened…

Early this morning a mother owl called from the rotting grandfather tree outside my open, waiting window.

And echoing her low, soft whoos,

a baby owl followed the sound–

imitating syllable for syllable, beat for beat–

sometimes overlapping

and beautifully, awkwardly amateur.

And concurrent with my outside companions,

from my daughter’s room came a delightful sound I have not yet heard while she slumbers:

a joyous cackle-laugh

from a beautiful dream no doubt,

void of all the things she doesn’t know.

And though tired, I was awake enough to wonder if I myself were dreaming–

feeling the tiny baby move and squirm against my ribs;

the whoos from the shuttering  leaves, the cackle from the cosseted bed,

and the grandfather tree not yet brought to its knees by the city.

So perfect were the events of this September morning of my 33rd year,

that whenever death decides to take me,

I would ask it to bury me in this moment.

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.