Every now is slippery. 

The 15-minute
rendezvous in Cincinnati,
you driving to Michigan,
us heading back south,
hugs and summaries
in a McDonald’s
parking lot,
a shared laugh
that we managed
to pull this off.

Seven-year-old
Emily rounding the bases
in Denver,
pigtails bouncing.
Vacations home
spent tagging along
on your routine
as if I really lived there
those five days.  

That visit from mom
when she redid
my entire house,
never stopping,
the way she liked it,
and then it was done,
and she left,
and 15 minutes later
I wanted to hug her
and say I love you
and maybe have
a cup of tea. 

I missed
Christmas ‘88,
but no others,
because that was
sacred –
not necessarily holy,
but sacred.
All running together
now in one big
glittery blur,
some asterisked by
an absence
or a change
or a drama. 

So many moments,
each their own
kind of tradition
in the remembering,
but also each
a separate pinpoint
on a timeline.

I want to
hold two-year-old Emily
in my arms,
her dangling feet
bouncing off my thigh,
my back strong
and able.
But she’s 34 now,
no longer the
big-eyed baby
she will always be to me
and will never be again.

I want to lasso
memory,
hold a fistful
of water,
hogtie
the wind.

But time only
moves forward.
Nothing ever
comes back
around again
exactly
the same.

Every now is
slippery,
held for an
instant —
No, not even held,
just slipping,
always slipping
away.  

© 2020 Deb Moore, All Rights Reserved