ran in from play, gasping that the power line had started an eerie bounce of its own accord. No wind. A ghost is shaking it! I cried.
That frost-thickened line is acting as an Aeolian harp, my father explained, drawing me against his rough overalls. Even wires and clotheslines sing, inspired by a tiny breath of air.
I look at the scattered pages of the morning paper on the table. People saved from plane crashes, birth mothers finding their adopted children, explosives refusing to go off, drowning victims revived, harps bursting into song. Miracles are everywhere. Ask anything in My Name .
Heal my baby. We do the dishes. Somewhere in the darkness a dog barks. Skipper answers, a nervous whine.
Just take Godâs hand
Look how a star hangs in His firmament
Look at a praising larkâs ascent
Yes, God is here
Just take Godâs hand ,
Look on a crocus thrusting through spring snow
Look oâer the sea tideâs etching ebb and flow
Yes, God is here â¦
Inexplicably, Brodie pulls me, hands still wet, against his flannel shirt. A Brodie moment. Relying on silence.
Iâm at the front door in my nightgown retrieving the morning paper when I look up and there is my sister Rose. Rose! Whatever are you doing here?
There she stands, eight oâclock on a Monday morning with sponges and mops and disinfectant in a pail. Flew in last night. Iâm bunking at Marigoldâs. Iâm here to do winter cleaning.
Winter cleaning? Whose?
Yours.
Rose! Who does winter cleaning?
Maggie. You wonât have done fall.
This is what my sister offers grief. Rose steps through the door and peers under my couch. Maggie. You canât just let things go.
Rose is a cheerful thump and slap of mop and soapsuds, window cleaner and rug shampoo. When did I last vacuum? I plunk myself on the ottoman, shame twisting my esophagus. Maggie Watson. The lazy, spoiled baby her sisters always said she was. Shoving her way to the front of the line. Me first! I want my baby whole.
What a hog! The other parents are settling nicely for parts. Missing kidney. No brain. No anus. Who do you think you are?
Rose sings as she dusts down the door frames. I grab my coat and head into winter. Skipper bounds ahead of me, shovelling a path with his nose. Netted snowflakes sashay to the ground. Metal scrapes cement, a boy in a Dr. Seuss toque shovelling our neighbourâs walk. Skipper barks and leaps at each mouthful of snow. I plough through snowdrifts. Maybe faith is nothing more than works. Could I, could all mothers perform for better service? Tie back our hair in ponytails? Tie our yellow gowns mid-thigh. Positions, ladies. A-one and a-two and a-one two three.
Big bottle of pop and a big banana
Weâre the gals from Louisiana
Thatâs a lie and thatâs a bluff
Weâre from Neonatal! Thatâs enough!
What is faith if not yearning for reward for those who act? Letâs teach those babies to demand their rights.
Set âem right! Stamp stamp stamp clap clap stamp stamp
Fight tonight! Stamp stamp stamp clap clap stamp stamp
We can score! Stamp stamp stamp clap clap stamp stamp
Little more! Stamp stamp stamp clap clap stamp stamp
By the time Iâve circled the neighbourhood, Dr. Seusshat-boy has finished shovelling a second driveway. He waves. Somewhere a siren wails. The boy bangs the shovel against the doorstep and rings the doorbell to collect his pay. Heâs still standing there in cement-shadowed dusk when I thump inside.
How do I find the shape of faith? Something to count on?
You drive to the hospital after supper, leaving Skipper, restless, whining in the closed-in porch. Step into Neonatal ICU imagining the moon broken by trees, rain-drenched November sky, the sheen of silver ice, to find your child awake. So rare in this place of organized air. You sit down so the impassioned parts of you do not move on, through, out the window, back into rain and wind and moving objects. You reach for that
That frost-thickened line is acting as an Aeolian harp, my father explained, drawing me against his rough overalls. Even wires and clotheslines sing, inspired by a tiny breath of air.
I look at the scattered pages of the morning paper on the table. People saved from plane crashes, birth mothers finding their adopted children, explosives refusing to go off, drowning victims revived, harps bursting into song. Miracles are everywhere. Ask anything in My Name .
Heal my baby. We do the dishes. Somewhere in the darkness a dog barks. Skipper answers, a nervous whine.
Just take Godâs hand
Look how a star hangs in His firmament
Look at a praising larkâs ascent
Yes, God is here
Just take Godâs hand ,
Look on a crocus thrusting through spring snow
Look oâer the sea tideâs etching ebb and flow
Yes, God is here â¦
Inexplicably, Brodie pulls me, hands still wet, against his flannel shirt. A Brodie moment. Relying on silence.
Iâm at the front door in my nightgown retrieving the morning paper when I look up and there is my sister Rose. Rose! Whatever are you doing here?
There she stands, eight oâclock on a Monday morning with sponges and mops and disinfectant in a pail. Flew in last night. Iâm bunking at Marigoldâs. Iâm here to do winter cleaning.
Winter cleaning? Whose?
Yours.
Rose! Who does winter cleaning?
Maggie. You wonât have done fall.
This is what my sister offers grief. Rose steps through the door and peers under my couch. Maggie. You canât just let things go.
Rose is a cheerful thump and slap of mop and soapsuds, window cleaner and rug shampoo. When did I last vacuum? I plunk myself on the ottoman, shame twisting my esophagus. Maggie Watson. The lazy, spoiled baby her sisters always said she was. Shoving her way to the front of the line. Me first! I want my baby whole.
What a hog! The other parents are settling nicely for parts. Missing kidney. No brain. No anus. Who do you think you are?
Rose sings as she dusts down the door frames. I grab my coat and head into winter. Skipper bounds ahead of me, shovelling a path with his nose. Netted snowflakes sashay to the ground. Metal scrapes cement, a boy in a Dr. Seuss toque shovelling our neighbourâs walk. Skipper barks and leaps at each mouthful of snow. I plough through snowdrifts. Maybe faith is nothing more than works. Could I, could all mothers perform for better service? Tie back our hair in ponytails? Tie our yellow gowns mid-thigh. Positions, ladies. A-one and a-two and a-one two three.
Big bottle of pop and a big banana
Weâre the gals from Louisiana
Thatâs a lie and thatâs a bluff
Weâre from Neonatal! Thatâs enough!
What is faith if not yearning for reward for those who act? Letâs teach those babies to demand their rights.
Set âem right! Stamp stamp stamp clap clap stamp stamp
Fight tonight! Stamp stamp stamp clap clap stamp stamp
We can score! Stamp stamp stamp clap clap stamp stamp
Little more! Stamp stamp stamp clap clap stamp stamp
By the time Iâve circled the neighbourhood, Dr. Seusshat-boy has finished shovelling a second driveway. He waves. Somewhere a siren wails. The boy bangs the shovel against the doorstep and rings the doorbell to collect his pay. Heâs still standing there in cement-shadowed dusk when I thump inside.
How do I find the shape of faith? Something to count on?
You drive to the hospital after supper, leaving Skipper, restless, whining in the closed-in porch. Step into Neonatal ICU imagining the moon broken by trees, rain-drenched November sky, the sheen of silver ice, to find your child awake. So rare in this place of organized air. You sit down so the impassioned parts of you do not move on, through, out the window, back into rain and wind and moving objects. You reach for that
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