There was that one hour
when we climbed into my bed together,
each wearing white flannel pajamas
with red apples on them,
and waited to hear Santa land on our roof.
There was the hour that I spent lying on my stomach
outside our bedroom door
breathlessly awaiting
the next installment of your comic strip
to be completed and released from the other side.
There was the hour after I saw you
as the beautiful lead in the high school play,
dressed in satin and so convincingly someone else altogether
that I burst into tears of relief
when you came out of the green room door
as yourself.
There was the Barbra Streisand hour.
You gave me her album for my birthday
because you knew I would love it,
be impaled by the voice and the sentimentality.
I stood over the turntable mouthing every syllable,
imagining I was as talented as she, as talented as you.
There was the hour you spent painting me in water colors,
naked and fresh from the shower,
hair in a towel, arms over knees in a pose that is my own.
You change mine to a gypsy's face to protect my privacy.
There were the hours spent recording stories for my children;
told with growly bear voices and squeaky mouse voices,
told by grumpy kings and cockney milkmaids,
replete with purring villains and feminist heroes.
We all laughed together, young and old, as we listened
on our long car trips.
There was that hour, not far past dawn,
when I awoke to find you studying the metro map
so you could guide me smoothly around Paris.
Later, in the Tuileries Gardens, you had your tall beer and I my short aperitif,
still perfect companions.
(inspired by the poem "The Book of Hours," by Joyce Sutphen)
