I wrenched my back last week, and nine-year old Etta has been very concerned, seeing me wince in pain as I hobble around the house. Last night as I was stiffly and carefully tucking her into bed, she said, “Your spine is being bad! It’s hurting you!”
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I was browsing through recent journal entries when I was suddenly stopped short by a simple description of walking Etta to school. Wow, that’s right, we used to go to school!
In that moment grief hit me hard — for all we’ve been through and all we’ve lost and how quickly everything changed. This is the poem I wrote about it.
“Etta, I don’t think you’re supposed to lie down during meditation,” Otto remarked, with a sideways glance at me. He was clearly hoping I’d make her come out from under the kitchen table and do it RIGHT. Etta was sprawled on the floor, petting the dog, who was enthusiastically lapping up spilled popcorn and bits of mashed potato …
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“Mommy was in jail,” Etta casually announced, as she swung her feet on the exam table in the doctor’s office during her annual checkup. At eight years old, Etta is a tall girl, in the 95th percentile for height. And, apparently, somewhere in the bottom 5% for tact.
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