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  • Birds of Apolonia, Tales of Araceli

    Polly’s reading chapter books.
    Araceli counters, well, “I’m only 2.”

    They both continue to amaze me.

    On the playground,
    creating elaborate detail

    no matter what we play.

    It’s Sunday morning.
    Araceli is going on and on
    with an idea I can barely follow

    until she calmly, assertively


    “Auntie Al, I have to poop.”

    Polly & I hang back
    while Araceli heads to the BP with Jay
    to take care of business.

    We sit at the top of the slide and wait for them
    and Polly teaches me a thing or two

    like usual.

    As they return to the playground
    Polly and I jump up and wave

    and Araceli bounds back

    in her little red pants
    and new yellow tee
    with cats on a trampoline

    and we’re back to the storytelling.

    It’s something else entirely.


    and the girls are gone —

    I’m listening to Jenny Lewis
    and cooking brussels sprouts 
    and thinking about them.

      We watched Mister Rogers

    and Daniel the Striped Tiger sang
    a song about how it’s very hard to wait.

    Araceli wraps a cat toy in her blanket.

    Polly puts her hand in mine.

    I couldn’t love them more.

    It’s the way Araceli woke me up on Saturday
    by talking to me as if we were mid-conversation;

    it’s the way she calls, “Peach!” to the cat
    and is delighted when he eats the treats she throws down;

    the way she put her stuffed cat Bubba
    on the ground by my bed (“if Peaches sees Bubba
    then he maybe won’t be scared
    and he’ll get used to me,” she explained).

    Meanwhile, Polly's engrossed in her third book of the weekend.

    She’s stretched out in the chair,
    the chair that’s mine that was my mom’s,
    skinny brown legs crossed —

    Not even fazed for one second
    that I knew the main character was named Karen
    Because I, too, used to drown out all the adults
    and everything else around me
    engrossed in a Baby-Sitters Little Sister book

    on a Saturday afternoon.

    When the girls are gone,
    I consider how different my couch looks

    without Pinky and B
    George and Bubba
    Araceli, Apolonia & Me.

    Fred Rogers was right,

    of course.

    There are many ways to say I love you.