Poems & Essays

18 Feb

What I Do Miss

General/Column One Response

This morning my daughter – who is ten –
Was running a little late
So I stooped down to untie
The laces of her sneakers – today is gym –
PE as they say today –
I swiveled the sneaker onto her foot
How big this foot, I mused inwardly,
Somewhat taken off guard –
She’s my baby, after all

I don’t help with sneakers or boots
So much anymore
And I don’t miss the head rush, the sudden sweat
That comes over a mom tying laces
Pushing last year’s snow boots onto this year’s feet
Head rush and sweat, and for what?
Maybe ten minutes of romping out in the snow
I don’t miss laying out the old rags
So they don’t track up the wood floor
With wet and muddy snow
And I don’t miss peeling off all those layers
And herding the heap into the basement
To be tossed in the dryer or hung on the line…

But I do miss the snow angels
Seeing them lie flat on the ground
Facing heaven
Flapping arms and legs like butterflies
I do miss seeing the still life of their tracks
After everyone has gone in at dusk
Symbols of childhood’s joyful play

I don’t miss getting up at night’s
Ungodly hours
To crying or fussing, or even to cooing
Pacing, rocking, wishing for sleep or a miracle,
Not willing to admit there are things, like sleep,
That are part of my need but not in my control…

But I do miss the small breathing bundle
Swaddled and warm, so perfect in sleep so tranquil
Yet as delicate as a the spider’s silk, or a soap bubble

I don’t miss the terrible twos
The stubborn-as-mules of the irrational ages
The stomping of feet, the throwing of tantrums
In the middle of the supermarket or in church
(I still don’t know which was worse!)
And even if none of the old folks are actually
Casting aspersions your way
When paranoia takes over the mother’s desperate soul
And indignantly, everyone is pronounced intolerant…

But I do miss all those mispronounced words
The funny phrases that emerge,
And the certainty they feel about their own ideas
Like making a delicious stew
Out of the acorns that fall, the same ones I’d usually curse
Because they cause me more work to do…

And, yes, I do miss the stories
We read over and over and over again…
But like in a fairytale
The clock has struck midnight
And the acorns are just acorns again




Laura Pochintesta is a high school English teacher, wife, and mother of three. Her pastime and passion is writing. Last summer one of her short stories won the Peter Hixson award through Writer’s Relief. It will appear in an upcoming issue of The MacGuffin literary journal. She has taken writing courses at Westport Writers Workshop and Greenwich Adult and Continuing Education, and a poetry workshop at Hudson Valley Writers Center.

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1 Comment

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  1. Angela

    February 18, 2019 at 7:15 pm

    Beautiful, thank you.


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