It’s the summer of sesame seeds, the summer of the smaller fridge,
of fruit next to veggies, of adventure next to quiet, of the new job and
heartache, of letting go because holding tight isn’t even an option.
It’s the summer of the old friend who says he’s glad life is going well.
Life is going well and I dream of nursing children who aren’t mine
of being someone I’m not, someone back there while I am up here:
Turning into a new version of myself. They say women grow a belly
around age 50. I am more pear-like and less rigid.
I don’t care when the children make a mess of the children’s section
at the bookstore. I can’t fathom rage at kids who place their lips on the pages.
I can’t begin to judge the dad who is so happy to be creating adventure
on a Saturday.
We are all making it up as we go along. I’m learning to play guitar
amazed my fingers learn how to stretch into new shapes.
I am a new shape.
I am a pear.
I am a woman
who can see
her pregnant self
walking through the August grasses
as I walk through the August grasses
the tears make creases
on my face.
We are walking new paths
making it all up
as the babies mouth the books
and the newish dad swells with pride.
I place the books back in their places.
I’ve lost all judgment
glad for the man
20 years beyond me
who tells me jokes
as I ring up his sale.
There is no conclusion.
There is the smaller fridge
that holds the blueberries
that I must eat today.