When Spider-Man comes to your house, you unlock the deadbolt and brace yourself. He has to clear the entryway at a full sprint, and you don’t want to be collateral damage.
When Spider-Man comes to your house, you better have sourdough toast, pickles, and sparkling water on the counter. Apparently, saving the neighborhood requires a very specific diet.
When Spider-Man comes to your house, he will absolutely chase your rabbit around the backyard. He’ll get burrs stuck to his polyester muscles, sit in the hammock to pick them off, and roast your gardening skills.
When Spider-Man comes to your house, he might peel back his mask just far enough to breathe, expose his secret identity, and clobber you at dominoes until he literally rolls off his chair laughing.
When Spider-Man comes to your house, you will notice the exact moment his shins match the length of yours. You’ll look at his massive feet, look at the trail of stuffed animals leading into the hallway, and accept reality: A superhero is in your living room right now.
So you forget the gardening. You ignore the toys.
And you get on the floor.
*7/100: For the next 100 days, I’ll be writing and posting a poem every day. **All photos are mine, taken with an Olympus E-M1 MarkII and edited with Lightroom Classic.
freedom used to be yellow. simple like holding my grandmother’s hand in the church pews on sunday. simple like the ribbons we tied around the thick bark of the trees, waiting for the soldiers to come home.
maybe that is why i still like parades. the heavy hooves of the horses, the bright brass of marching bands, the gleam of old cars, bubbles floating in the summer air. i want it to be yellow again.
but knowledge changes all the colors. i cannot pretend anymore. it does not mean what it used to.
some people choose the blindness of yellow. some people see the truth.
*4/100: For the next 100 days, I’ll be writing and posting a poem every day. **All photos are mine, taken with an Olympus E-M1 MarkII and edited with Lightroom Classic.
what if the calling crows think you are a makeshift scarecrow built for chasing them away from their dreams? will they peck at you with sharp beaks so far from my grasp? will I be able to run fast enough to save you? the shifting rice tells me to take a deep breath. this isn’t a cornfield and the cranes won’t hurt you. but grey skies mean trouble so run to me anyway my boy. mother needs you in her arms.
Shoebox Poetry: This is the fourth poem in my series based on an old box of photos I inherited when my grandmother died in 2004. The back of this photo reads “Gary in rice field Nov ’53.” It’s a photo of my dad, but it made me think of my own boy. He turned 18 in December and is finishing high school in a few months. This poem poured out instantly along with some tears. I guess I have some feelings.
Here are the other poems in the series if you missed them:
pictures on sundays wearing pure white pearls, flowers, smiles
but not before
we wash in the family tub first dad and then my ten brothers then mother then me cold dirt shame s i n it absorbs deep into my soft skin my thick blood my frail bones leaving me scabbed broken apart dirtier than before but mother covers it all with white
smile, she says but I’m thinking of willow trees carving my name with a sharp knife pomegranate juice running down my chin screaming at the stars
straighten up, she says but I’m thinking of foggy forests walking barefoot through mossy earth honey dripping from my fingertips bathing in the moonlight
be sweet, she says but I’m thinking of roaring waves sunlight on freckled shoulders seaweed stuck between toes salt water taffy kisses
be quiet, she says but I’m thinking of throwing things messy hair and dirty fingernails cadmium yellow, ultramarine blue painting my own life
but not before
pictures on sundays wearing pure white pearls, flowers, smiles
Shoebox Poetry: Last week I rediscovered an old box of photos I inherited when my grandmother died in 2004. This poem is the first in a series of poems using those images as inspiration. Today’s photo is of my grandmother as a young woman. There is no date, but the sweeping handwriting on the back says “Kate, Gill St.” And yes, she told me her entire family bathed in the same water every Sunday before church. Can you even imagine?
We don’t have an origin story, for we met before memories form. Two little girls living across a curved court
named after a man. Pigtailed dancing dolls, we played through seasons until one day you moved and I learned heart-
break. Although I saw your plane fly away, I looked in all our hiding places for you. I’ve never stopped
looking. Time has brought us together over and over—but we always lose each other in the mess. Will this
time be different? I need it to be. You see, I’m tired of playing pretend— saying I’m okay when broken
bits of me want only to be seen. You hugged me tighter this time—do you need me too? Can
we take off our masks and find our old hiding places again? Can we swim together in secrets and show
each other the magical ways we have survived? Grab my hand yet again and let’s run toward the setting sun
together.
*This was written after seeing my childhood friend at a funeral last weekend and never wanting to let her go. Thank you for making sure we made a date to get together. I can’t wait.
I adjust the rearview mirror so I can see him smiling from his car seat in his striped footie pajamas. He turns the tiny gold key to my jewelry box over and over in his small hand. We spent all morning unlocking tiny doors around the house, letting out imaginary rabbits to rush around and find carrots in the carpet.
“The van is dirty,” he says.
We make eye contact in the mirror and he giggles. His bright blue eyes are hidden behind my pink sunglasses and he’s wearing a knit blue cap. I play along.
“Are you sure?” I say. “It looks clean to me.”
“Yes! It’s dirty!”
“Well…what do you think we should do?”
“Car wash!”
He says the words with a squeak at the end. His entire body jerks and the sunglasses fall off his face.
“You think so, huh?” I say.
“Yes! Car wash!”
“I don’t know…”
“Car wash! Car wash! Car wash!”
He knows I’m going to give in and I do. When he sees the yellow duck on the sign he claps his hands and kicks his legs. I put on our song, “Working at the Car Wash” by Rosvelt, and pull the shade back from the sunroof so we can see the bubbles all around us.
“Ready?”
“Yes!”
I watch the joy and excitement on his squishy face as he stares at the green, blue and purple bubbles. We sing, dance, and giggle over the harsh sounds of the water and the fat colorful rollers slapping against the van.
It’s pure joy.
A ritual we’ve discovered together.
An auntie thing.
He turns three on Saturday and I live for these pockets of magic we uncover.
Our shared treasure.
They feel big and important.
And fleeting.
My own children are teenagers, beautiful and complex. We are close and continue to create new memories, but I miss when they were small enough I didn’t have to share them with school or friends.
When they were mine.
I’ve discovered playing with my nephew allows me to slip back into memories of my own kids in a new and different way; to uncover the feelings and sensations of burying them in the sand, snuggling them at bedtime, and holding them when they’ve fallen.
These little snapshots of my kids at his age come into focus with surprising intensity. It’s like remembering an old language I used to speak, slipping on an old sweater, or opening a tiny door.
It’s a wonderful and unexpected gift.
All the love.
All the silliness.
All the tears.
All the firsts.
This week my son got his first bank account and started his first job. As I drive him to work it occurs to me it’s the exact route I took to his preschool. The feelings swelling up are familiar too; another moment of letting go and another shifting of our relationship.
The sadness I expect to come, however, doesn’t.
It feels different.
When I pick up him at 10 p.m. he requests a Happy Meal and hopes he gets a Stitch toy. He talks animately about his job and the people he met. He laughs and we listen to “Pump up the Jam” at high volume and sing along.
My boy.
There you are.
The pandemic and his accidents robbed him of growth and some of the firsts he should have had. It put us in a strange place of adversaries, and we’ve both lost the comfortable way we’d always been together. The silly way we could look back and move forward; our own dance.
Bridgette Tales 