This isn’t epidurals, breastfeeding, or 2 a.m.
white nights. This is about the long arc of letting go—
single, partnered, or not—of what another generation
called apron strings. Personally, I’ve never
worn an apron. Still to protect a child, even one of
thirty or forty, a mother often wishes for
a sweaty palm tugging at rough ties or a hand
tucked into her blossom-splashed pocket.
Blossoming is the first time the child walks into the ocean
in her flowered tank suit and doesn’t glance back.
Look, is there any father in this picture calling, Be careful.
Keep watching the incoming waves. And when
she turns away at Baker Beach, and the undertow
sucks her down, who darts to grab
her churning body in the surf. Fun, she said,
as she coughed up seawater. Today, in the cove of
an unpredictable ocean, I search for this girl-woman
who has gone deep. She is out there, with
no strings, and I—though married—am single.
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