Yellow

on becoming a mother

#1 — Yellow

On the phone, my aunt asks if I remember grandma and grandpa’s porch. “I remember the yellow swing,” I say, then think, ‘that sounds like a poem.’ The yellow swing is not what you’re picturing; no chains hanging from hooks or a tree. A double rocking chair, rusted metal, paint chipping a little more with each visit, butter yellow, a popular color in the 70s, with a seat wide enough for two adults or three or four squishy children, squeaking with each front and backwards motion. I remember this porch in Perry, Oklahoma. I remember my grandma’s white hair, and how every lamp in her living room would cast a yellow shadow. I remember the kitchen and its wood-burning stove, which burned me once as I ran past. I remember making ‘pioneer stew’ in the backyard — a bowl of mud and twigs and rocks and flowers and berries mixed with a large stick. I don’t remember our last visit, but I remember the feeling of sitting on someone’s lap there, and now… I am suddenly old enough. I have my own family, my own porch, my own baby on my own lap. A baby born in the yellow morning of spring. With each year I am more in awe of the women who came before me.

#2 — Final Form/Your Hands

Your mouth is shaped like a bow. Your eyes are deep brown ringed with blue-gray in the light. You are 40 days old, and we are wandering the desert together. You eat…