yet somehow more serene
than Buddha’s.
Samantha reached out
to pull Monkey’s face
toward her own,
as if for a smooch.
She was too young to realize
that her hands even belonged to her.
But she seemed to know
that Monkey did.
NEW YEAR’S RESOLUTION
I, Holly Miller, hereby swear
that I will never again
allow myself to be lured away
from my writing
by clicking
on those hideous headlines
that litter my computer screen
like landmines waiting to be stepped on.
So I am not going to click
on the article about the nasty insults
that Anderson Cooper slung at a celebrity mom
that prompted her to lash out.
Though I’m dying to know which
celebrity mom it was
and exactly what she and Anderson
said to each other.
And I am not
going to click on the article
about the location
of America’s greatest bathroom
(which
apparently was found
when “Pros Flushed Far and Wide
to Find the Best Spot to Tinkle”).
And even though
I do remember Ann-Margret
and I’m yearning to see
how she looks at sixty-seven,
I am not
going to click on the link.
I am not!
I am NOT!
Wow…
She looks good…
WHICH IS MORE THAN I CAN SAY ABOUT MYSELF THESE DAYS
I’m at Macy’s
shopping for some new underwear,
the walls of the fitting room closing in on me
like the trash compactor in Star Wars,
while I stand here, bug-eyed,
observing my body
from each devastating angle
of the three-way mirror…
When did my neck begin dripping
off my chin like melted wax?
When did my upper arms
turn into my mother’s?
When did my legs
get so criss-crossed with spider veins
that they started looking
positively tie-died?
And why on earth
has it taken me this long
to realize that I have dimples
where nobody should have dimples
and that,
from the back,
I could easily be mistaken
for the Michelin Man?
BUT WHAT I REALLY CAN’T FIGURE OUT
Is why Michael doesn’t seem
to have noticed any of this.
In fact, he’s always telling me
I’m just as cute as the day we first met—
twenty-two years ago
in front of the buffet table
at an art opening,
when our fingers bumped
while reaching into a bowl of cherries
and Michael said life was one
and I laughed.
Then, when he asked me how I liked the art,
I confessed that I hadn’t even glanced at it—
that I’d been passing by the gallery
and realized I was famished,
so I’d snuck inside to pilfer
some cheese and wine and cherries.
Michael claims I turned a deeper shade of red
than the Bings I’d been scarfing down,
when he told me I was lovelier
than any of the paintings on display.
And when I told him I didn’t think the artist
would be too happy to hear him say that,
he told me he was the artist.
At which point,
I nearly choked on a cherry.
And a moment later,
when he asked me to join him for dinner,
I said yes without thinking twice.
Because Michael wasn’t just a highly skilled flirt,
And he still is.
The bastard.
How come I keep getting more gray
and he keeps getting more gorgeous?
TIME FLIES
The months of this year
before Samantha leaves for college
are blowing past like the pages of a calendar
in some hokey film.
One minute,
the three of us are sitting by the fire
singing “Auld Lang Syne,”
watching the ball drop in Times Square…
The next—it’s Valentine’s Day
and I’m waking up to find, just like every year,
a funny handmade valentine from Samantha
taped to my bathroom mirror.
I’m thinking,
Next year, on Valentine’s Day,
the only thing I’ll see when I look in the mirror
will be my pathetic lonely mug…
Then, suddenly, it’s Saint Patrick’s Day,
and Samantha’s waking me up with a pinch
because, like every year, I’ve forgotten to wear
my green pajamas.
“Ouch!” I say, swatting her hand away.
Then I pull her in for a squeeze,
thinking, Next year, on this day,
there will be no pinch…
no squeeze…
CRYING JAGS
It doesn’t take much to set off another one.
I might see a lost birthday balloon
tangled in the branches of our pepper tree.
Or maybe I’ll catch a glimpse of Monkey,
sad-eyed but still grinning from his lonely
perch atop the toy box in Sam’s room.
Or I might hear Michael, up in his studio,
absentmindedly whistling the tune from
the mobile that used to spin above her crib.
Some of these flash floods
feel purely hormonal,
as though it’s simply crying season.
Some of them
feel considerably
more justified—
like when
my editor Roxie calls
to put the screws to me.
Or when I glance at my face in a mirror
and see that I look more wrinkled
than laundry left in the dryer.
Or when my mother confesses that all those
aches and pains she’s been plagued with lately
have been diagnosed as polymyositis—
a muscle disease that makes her feel,
she says, like a voodoo doll being jabbed
with hundreds of white-hot pins.
BECAUSE
Because my father died
when I was twelve
and my mother never remarried,
and because she lives alone in Cleveland
and all her friends are at a funeral today
(which she was in way too much pain to attend)
and because
I’m her only living relative
(except for Sam and my cousin Alice),
I’m the one she speed-dialed just now
when she fell out of bed
and couldn’t get back up off the floor.
So I’m the one
who’s listening to
her shard-sharp screams.
I’m the one whose heart
is thrashing in my chest
like some wild, caged thing
while I try to get my mother
to calm down and hang up the phone
and call 911.
But because she’s too scared
and in too much agony
to do what I’m telling her to do,
an
d because I didn’t have the foresight
to find out her new next-door neighbor’s
phone number,
I’m the one who’s standing here
sweating clear through my T-shirt
while trying to figure out
how the hell to call 911 in Ohio
when you’re dialing it
from California.
WHAT I FINALLY FIGURE OUT IS THIS:
You can’t call 911 in Ohio
when you’re dialing it
from California.
So you’ve got to Google
the phone number of the police station
nearest your mother’s house
and then force your stuttering fingers
to stop shaking long enough
for you to dial the number
and then pry open your locked jaw
so that you can ask the police
to send an ambulance
and then you’ve got to
call your mother back
to tell her help is on the way
and when
she doesn’t answer
her phone,
you’ve got to
fling yourself onto your bed
and totally fall apart.
WHEN MICHAEL RETURNS FROM THE FRAME SHOP
He finds me
quaking under the covers,
surrounded by an acre
of crumpled Kleenex.
When I tell him about my mother,
he gathers me into his arms,
strokes my back,
and presses his lips to the top of my head.
He doesn’t tell me
not to worry.
He doesn’t tell me
to cheer up.
He doesn’t tell me
that everything will be okay.
And I love him for it.
MOMENTS LATER
Samantha comes home from
her chorus rehearsal
and, traipsing past
our open bedroom door,
she glances over
and sees us snuggling on our bed.
“Eeeooowww,” she says.
“Can’t I leave you two alone for a minute?”
Then she flounces off down the hall,
calling back to us over her shoulder,
“Remember, you two sex fiends:
no glove, no love.”
Michael and I
exchange a glance.
And both of us
burst out laughing.
MY MOTHER HAS BEEN ADMITTED TO THE HOSPITAL
Her attending physician’s name is Dr. Hack.
I do not consider this
a good sign.
Dr. Hack calls me to tell me
that there is good news
and there is bad news.
The bad news is
that my mother’s polymyositis
is advancing more rapidly than he’d like.
The good news is that he’ll probably
be able to alleviate her pain
and maybe even reverse her symptoms
if he gives her
enough steroids
to kill an elephant.
The bad news is that taking
such megadoses of steroids might cause
my mother to experience “roid rage.”
They might even
cause her to have hallucinations
or manic episodes.
He says
one of his younger patients
got so crazed
that he bought an old car
and deliberately drove it into a tree
at forty miles an hour.
“But the good news…” Dr. Hack adds
with a shrill little chuckle
that sets my teeth on edge,
“the good news is that your mother
is probably way too sick
to get into that kind of mischief.”
And the worst news of all,
I think to myself, is that you, Dr. Hack,
are my mother’s doctor.
I HANG UP AND CALL MY MOTHER
I tell her I’m going to hop on a plane
and come to visit her.
She tells me I’m going to do
no such thing.
When I protest,
she forbids me to come.
She assures me
that she’s doing just fine.
She says her doctor’s a dreamboat
and that he’s taking excellent care of her.
She tells me that my place is at home—
with Samantha.
She reminds me that my daughter
will be leaving for college in the fall.
She says I need to enjoy every second
of her company while I still can.
She warns me
that once Samantha’s had a taste of the world
she might flit home for a summer
like a migrating bird
or maybe breeze into town
for a few days now and then.
But after she’s built her own nest,
mine will be emptier than a poor man’s pocket.
THE KIND OF GIRL SAMANTHA IS
Even though the season finale
of Glee is airing tonight,
and even though
she’s absolutely dying to see it,
and even though
she’s been planning to go
to a big finale-of-Glee party
with Wendy, Tess, and Laura,
a party which promises to be the
social event of the television season,
Samantha has opted
to stay home instead,
so that she can make a funny Photoshopped
get-well card for her grandma
and bake a batch
of her famous butterscotch brownies—
the ones her grandma loves
better than anything.
That’s the kind of girl
Samantha is.
AND WHEN SHE FINALLY FINISHES BAKING
She doesn’t rush
to the family room
to watch the TiVoed episode of Glee.
She brings me up a tray
with a couple of warm brownies
and a frosty glass of milk
then hops onto my bed with me,
grabs the remote, and says,
“We’re gonna watch Roman Holiday!”
Because
she knows
it’s one of my all-time favorites.
But I happen to know
that Samantha thinks Roman Holiday
is terminally sappy.
So I say,
“If it’s okay with you,
I’d rather watch the season finale of Glee.”
And when she hears these words
a smile lights up her face
like a Fourth of July sky.
AND SUDDENLY, A MEMORY WASHES OVER ME
A memory of the very first time
Samantha smiled at me.
I mean really smiled.
She was just a couple of months old…
She was lying on her back in the center of our bed,
one arm raised above her head,
her first two fingers aligned
as though she was a tiny pope, blessing me.
I was sitting cross-legged at her feet
in a state of photo-snapping bliss,
her biggest fan,
her most loyal subject,
enthralled with the intensity of her gaze,
so sober and intelligent,
as though she was trying to send me
a telepathic message of the utmost importance.
Then—I sneezed.
And her gummy grin opened before me
like the pearly pink gates
to my own private heaven.
My baby smiled at me. She smiled!
And
now that I’d stumbled on
the magic spell,
I would never stop chanting it.
“Achoo!” I said.
“Ah…choo!
Ahh…choooo!
Ahhh…CHOOOOO!”
APRIL FOOL’S DAY
Samantha tells us
she’d like to be
by herself
when she opens them—
those life-altering emails
that she received today
from all the college deans
of admission.
But before she sequesters herself,
Michael and I remind her
that what’s supposed to happen,
will happen.
That everything happens for a reason.
That sometimes these reasons
don’t present themselves
until many years later.
She smiles grimly,