Someday, I am going to
order every book from my amazon wish list
and read them.
Own a vacuum cleaner that works.
Organize four years worth of my daughters' school papers and
nine years of their artwork.
Attend every meeting at the school and then
pull my children out of the public system
teach them about Hindus and Wagner and
how to survive 9 days in the wild.
Someday I will go to every social outing I say I will
Follow through on my offers to volunteer
cutting snowflakes for second graders and
baking snacks for the Girl Scouts and
spending quiet hours repairing brittle old books.
Cook wholesome meals and never get
lean against the counter rubbing my temples or
retire to the bathroom for twenty minutes while the water boils over
and the children fight
and the windows steam with all the tension
of a busy house
on a December night.
Someday I will paint this old Victrola that I bought
for 45 bucks at a yard sale
that worked at the time but broke
when I moved my children across the country--
--away from their cousins and snow and grandparents
away from white Christmases and smoked oysters and
the shadows of the clouds on the face of Long's Peak.
Someday I will gather
everything that is broken or disorderly or
and resurrect it.
Learn how to put new paint on old scars
and make the best!
--But this isn't true.
The artwork will mold in the outdoor shed
and the Victrola will sit in the corner
gathering dust, its ribs
remembering the sound
of old music.
And when I am old
if the longings of the Victrola
wake me at night
from a dream of Long's Peak,
I will sigh my heavy body and remind it
it has done what it could.