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I am three blogs away from a hundred. Rad. I’m going to go ahead and let myself be proud of that. Poemin’ ain’t easy, and I  keep churning out these first drafts because I don’t want to quit.

Today has been nice. We dropped our kids of at our dear friend/boss’s house and went skiing just us. After last winter’s recovery and this winter’s lessons with Mae, I haven’t had a real day of skiing on the mountain for years. My thighs are burning, and it is good. After a couple of seasons off, though, I felt a little hesitant on the planks, though. Also, I’ve never felt quite so old on skis, or quite so adult about the understanding that crash equals cash. Sigh.

I found myself getting nervous on the pitches, and less likely to let my body swoosh with abandon, and GAH. That’s  lame. I don’t want to feel this old OR this responsible. Blech. Damn. Ugh.

Think I’ll write a poem about that.


I can’t be that hesitant, or nervous, because one day I’ll have to keep up. You’ll have the internet in your helmet or some shit like that. You’ll have much sexier ski pants, and I’ll have to intervene in that. We won’t need radios, we will speak helmet to helmet. And I will ask you, “hey, Mae, where are  you?” and you will respond, “Don’t worry about it. I’ll be down in fifteen minutes.” “Yeah, but where are you?” “Mom. I’m on my way. In fifteen.”

I think “where are you?” will become the ultimate prayer, in years to come. Maybe it always was.

Wishing for stronger joints and the ability to time travel to wretched seventeen and give my mother my voice every time I forgot. Here I am. This where I am.


Happy Saturday, poem friends. I hope you are having THE BEST TIME.