Steve C
Mar 6, 20211 min
Updated: Mar 12, 2022
The months fit like stones in the wall by the garden.
This bright one, your voice
through the delivery room door and next to it
your birth mother fitting our lives together.
That blue-gray stone, our old house and your small room in back
with pear blossoms trained around the window.
You've always wanted that back but lacked
a window in the sun where fruit would grow.
This red one, your first teacher
and her careful Montessori ways.
The smells of Sri Lankan cooking,
her gentle mother visiting from home.
And these, with the sharp edges, the months your shin ached
and bruised, three times until we found the tumor.
And the next one your leg, stretched open
and boned on the operating table.
There is your grandfather, who helped care for you
all that time. And the grandmother that makes
your favorite applesauce, and the other one, ready
to take you to museums.
And this stone that the light catches
is your music. The piano, and you transposing
before you could read. And the flute,
your new one, bright in the sun.
We are building our lives month by month
and each fits to the next, stones that make your life.
You are the one that fits in to make ours strong
and ready for what comes next.
--D. H. Bleything
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