Wednesday, April 9, 2014

A Banana Bread Baby

Dear Mom,

Aaron baked
banana bread muffins.
And Evelyn ate a whole muffin
all by herself.
Hot banana-bread-scent stuck to the air,

but I missed it, my fingers busily ticking at my keyboard in the silent library:
acquiring my degree
like you never did.

Evelyn waddled into my bedroom,
searching. “Mama?” she repeated
tugging on the bed covers, where she often
finds me, sleeping,
because I’m always tired,

but I missed it, busy analyzing when one should or should not use passive voice:
acquiring my degree
like you never did.

Mom, Evelyn crunched an autumn leaf, swept snow from her mittens, touched the hot pink geraniums, and gave one a kiss,
and I missed it.

But you never did.


  1. Wrote this poem in college two years ago. When I stood in front of my close-knit class of about twenty peers, I broke down in sobs and had to go to the bathroom to compose myself.

  2. Wow. I marvel at your ability to say things so perfectly that your words leave me still thinking about them days later. This is wonderful (and bittersweet). Nicely done. Thanks for sharing it.