the “Y”

I sit here, jarred.

Surrounded by g’mornings and Cheerios.

Searching.

Yearning for—recognition.

I see you. Remember me?

Desperate for connection: “I have a two-year-old too…”

Is this enough?

For now it is, and fleeting friendships are made over glue and scraps.

Eyes darting, seeking better.

You?

You?

Maybe you.

Judgments made before glue dries and in an instant we think we know enough to say: ‘hello’ or walk-by.

Walk-by—

Walk-by—

Walk-by.

a little note

I wrote this poem April 24, 2015 sitting on the gym floor at the YMCA Armory in Park Slope, Brooklyn where I spent a lot of time sitting criss cross, applesauce. I titled it Nov. 5, 2016. At the time, I had a seven-year-old, three-year-old, and a two-year-old. The two youngest were at-home with me, the oldest in school at PS. 10 in the south slope. I remember that desperate feeling: so lonely, wanting to make friends, have an adult conversation. Intense loneliness and brain atrophy are not often talked about as a mom, home, raising her kids. But it’s real.