Fleeting

When you were three and you sat in your mother’s lap during the dry season,
And the sun was soft as corn silk, soaking through your eyelids and making everything red,
And your mother’s rough, large hands curved the blade of a paring knife around green apples,
As she sat in the kitchen preparing the pie for when your father came home from work,
You marveled at the glistening sweat on her forehead, how every bead of perspiration caught the light in just the right way.

When you were nine and you rode your bike through the neighborhood wearing your cape,
And your mother called to you from the front porch, yelling at Superman to come inside,
And you could smell the electricity in the air and how damp the world was becoming,
As droplets pounded your back and slid down your neck into your shirt,
You spread your arms wide and let the wind ripple across your skin as a loud crow slipped through your lips.

When you were sixteen and made the monumental mistake of kissing some girl you didn’t like,
And her hair was rank with the overwhelming scent of strawberries, mingling with the smell of your mother’s laundry detergent,
And your lips, chapped and cracked, moved with hers and you could taste her sticky lip gloss,
As your hand cupped the back of her neck and you let your thumb trace the length of her jaw,
You wondered how your heart could possibly beat so loud and so fast, and you were sure that she would hear it, too.

When you were twenty-five and your hand—clamped between bone and muscle and skin in your wife’s iron grasp—fell limp, blood vessels bursting,
And she screamed and pushed and screamed and breathed, doing nothing for your nerves,
And you heard the sudden gasp and the fractional second of silence before joy drizzled into your every pore,
As you held your tiny, purple baby girl in your arms and she squirmed and wailed with life,
You had to take a moment to catch your breath and question how anyone could love something so much without exploding.

When you were forty-nine and you eyed the young man standing next to your daughter suspiciously,
And you zeroed in on her hand resting comfortably in his, so casually, as if the ring on her finger were a freckle she’d had all her life,
And your wife placed her hand lightly on your knee as if it might keep you in your seat,
As you held your breath and steadied yourself for the blow you were sure was coming,
You tried to listen to what they were saying, but in your head all you could see was a much smaller version of the young woman in front of you, with her hair tangled like a rat’s nest and tears shimmering on her cheeks in the moonlight as she crawled into bed with you.

When you were sixty-seven and you balanced a precarious little boy on your knee,
And the sun was streaming in through the curtains, shedding gold light on the bright eyed child tugging at your beard,
And you could barely hear the sound of your family singing to you, though you could still smell the waxy sweetness of candles melting on a cake,
As the little one helped you blow out the flames and make a wish and smoke slithered into the air,
You smiled at the overpowering sense of joy that filled the room, how every face seemed brighter.

When you were ninety-one and you lay next to your wife in bed,
And the window was open, letting in the summer breeze along with the sound of crickets and the woodsy scent of night,
And you watched her eyes moving beneath their lids like a quiet mouse scurrying beneath a sheet,
As she breathed and mumbled in her sleep and you thought she might be saying some variation of your name,
You looked at the ceiling, felt the warmth of her wrinkled palm in your hand, followed the raised ridges of her veins with your fingers,
Breathed in every memory you possibly could,
Allowed peace to finally sink in,
And closed your eyes for the last time.