The Last Time
Here I am again! Don’t they say third time’s a charm? Again, tonight, I start with the writing, end with the babble.
The prompt: The last time.
Take 1: Wherein I recall old boyfriends
The last time I kissed a frog
I leaned in at an awkward angle
swallowed my tongue
sure that he would have enough
for both of us and prayed for rain
so much rain that I would slide
right off my lily pad,
so much electricity
that I would forget he was a frog after all
and then, ten thouand volts coursing through us
the real fireworks would begin.
These were my prayers.
What I got were warts.
Take 2: Still the Boyfriends
The last time they met there was a bar and a barmaid. There was a short skirt, a cold beer, and a blueberry muffin. The muffin came much later, but hey, it was the last time after all.
Take 3: Like I Said, Third Time’s a Charm
The last time
This is the last time I am going to tell you.
Door closing. Chapter ending. This is the last time
I am going to tell you.
Why is it when a parent gives a child the last time line,
it is never really the last time.
There is the last kiss, the last thrust, the last heavy sigh.
The last scent of a certain shampoo on a certain head of hair.
These last things are really the end,
the final glimpse. No one is there wagging a finger,
growling, This is the last time I am going to tell you.
Face it. The last time you see him,
the last time you smile at her,
will dawn like any other morning, bright or not,
rainy or snowy, ice on your windshield
or flowers in your garden.
You may or may not have time to eat breakfast.
You may be late for an appointment.
You may forget to kiss your husband, your wife,
your first daughter goodbye.
When you see your friend, your mother, your old roommate,
you may or may not tell him or her how you really feel,
how your weekend was,
how much you enjoyed the book, the wine, the movie.
You will wander off, or run off, or saunter off in your car or on your bike.
Maybe you will have merely passed in the grocery store
and smiled. That could be the last time.
This may be the last time you read these words.
If it is, then, I told you so.
Now for the discussion! I have spent the greater part of my evening looking for a yellow legal pad that may or may not exist. You see, I was playing with the kids when I found a book of poetry by a woman I took a workshop with. Myra Shapiro.
She signed it, to Jill Poet Mom. Oh! I said, more to myself than to the doll-dressing dragon-flying children. I must find the journal or yellow legal pad I was using when I took her workshop. I must have some lovely mothering poems in there. After all, she called me poet mom.
And so the search ensued. And then my daughter squirted Bath & Body Works lotion in her eye at the exact moment my son had a bathroom incident. Simultaneous calls of Mommy! halted my search. Dinner halted my search. Heading out to teach a creative writing class halted my search. Reading a sad Rain Forest bedtime story to my son halted my search. At 8:45, the search resumed. To no avail.
Now I am writing. And you know, every time I start out thinking I am so uninspired, I keep plugging and I wind up with something I kind of like. Writing practice is like that. Now if only I could get myself to edit. To revisit the stuff I start. Any tips?