I used to say I felt like I was
running to catch a train,
a toddler in one arm, our boy
hanging on to my jacket.
I used to say we ran on marbles
reaching for the train handle
in the days after my husband’s
sudden death. Our boy would say,
You’re holding my hand too tight,
it hurts. I wouldn’t allow
our daughter’s feet to touch ground.
Anything could happen.
Then, one day, at the kitchen window,
I looked out and watched our children
play baseball with spruce cones and sticks,
the dog leaping and twisting as cheerleader.
And I mean this. They shone.
Shrubs behind them dropped glitter.
The air bristled with light.
The brilliant forest throbbed.
And it lasted.
And we danced away
from that train.