Bodhi's Birthday

 Every Monday I write a letter, starting today. I am thinking about love, mothering, firstborns. The pain and spirit of family. Of how I sent my kids away on a holiday. And the peace I feel without them, the longing for closeness that remains. All the lights are on and nobody's home but me. I fantasize about the surfaces I'll clear. I will take rubbing alcohol to the kitchen table to remove rainbow ghosts of their art stained in wood. I will try every colored pen, electrified by the joy each time I throw one in the trash. Only the dead ones. I will write in pencil for sensorial indulgence. I imagine being married to Martin Luther King Jr. I wonder if he spoke of love to his family, if he made speeches to his wife and children, always reminding that love is power. He died the age I am today: 39. Why did he go? Why must I stay? At age 10, I memorized the "I Have a Dream" speech and played his role in a school performance. I have never lost the pride I felt holding that part, but I have forgotten the words. I'd like to return to the practice of memorization and recitation -- to carry words like that around in heart and mind. Kindling for fire at another moment when warmth is needing (needed). For now, I sit, pretending I live and love alone. Writing until my children come home. Awaiting return.