Literary Mama writing about the many faces of motherhood

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I call your name out across the lawn

With cuffs rolled up over your calves,

Your feet mash the grass beneath round soles

I try to catch your back as you run

The sprinkler drops cool water on my neck

Neighbors watch me smiling, hands on heart

It startles me that you can giggle and dodge

You can pull your pockets inside out

And fly with them as wings at your sides

You can stumble under the arch of water

Folding quickly high above your head

And you can hear me calling to you -- Truman Jack!

You can laugh with me when I say it again and again

I can see you -- Water tumbles onto your head

I marvel, waking, cheeks wet with tears

Covering palms to face,

I cry that you have a name I can call across the lawn

I cry, for I have seen you, heard you,

Reached for you, almost touched you

I cry, for if you can run under the cascade, fists clenched

Eyes wide, shivering, sucking in your breath from the cold,

If you can do all of this

Then why can't you be born?

Day Penaflor is a teacher and writer. She is a graduate of Boston University and Columbia Teachers College and has studied creative writing at Sarah Lawrence College. She is a freelance writer with publications in Mommy Too! Magazine, Creativity Portal, and Dream/Girl Magazine. She and her husband live on Long Island with their tortoise and Boston Terrier.

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