My mother climbed a wooden fence in snow, called a cab so as not to disturb my father as he taught middle school math, and made it to the hospital in time for my birth, which remains an otherwise uneventful dream to her, given the gas dispensed and the ways babies were whisked away to rooms full of pink or blue capped pea pods in little plastic boats attended by angels in white uniforms, tucking, cooing, tending, standing back when fathers and other gallery patrons came to the window to watch and wave through the glass.
I picture one of the angels walking up and down rows where we docked, blessing each cap, be it pink or blue, with wishes. May you walk on strong legs for running and playing and staying upright. May you shine like a beacon, may you take up the flute, may you swim with whales, may you build what will not fall down easily, may you learn the ways of bees, compose a symphony, may you speak in holy tongues, learn all manner of love, of entrances and exits and tend to the dead without fear when you are called.
No ill will or spiteful revenge was ever spoken by those white angels in that bright-lit room, but one was away during my temporary stay and her wishes are missed: take care not to swallow the sword of your own anger, deny yourself rest or forget to laugh at your mistakes. Remember, the womb is a temporary habitat, but remember it. Remake it in mossy enclaves, summer caves, in the comforters you choose, the people whose arms you fall into. Befriend yourself, as your mother needs her sleep and will forget you soon. Remember her imperfect love is and will be and always was enough. Remember, and make of it what you will.
Early Morning Poems 