Breakfast in Bed

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Breakfast in Bed

Many years ago we spent a spring weekend with friends at their beach house a few hours from the city.

That Sunday was Mother’s Day and our young son and our hosts’ two young kids had planned a lovely surprise.  Early that morning our bedroom door burst open and the three kids came in, our son balancing a large breakfast tray.

“Happy Mother’s Day!”,  the trio chanted as they approached our bed.

”How lovely!  Thank you!!”  I exclaimed.

But the words were hardly out of my mouth when to the horror of my son and his friends the too-heavy tray he carried toppled, and a sticky mess of juice, tea, toast, and  jam somersaulted onto the sheets.

And as is the wont of us mothers, I quickly turned from a feted celebrant to a consoler of children,  a drier of tears,  and a cleaner of spills.

And despite that minor mishap it was a lovely – and quite memorable –  Mother’s Day!

– Dana Susan Lehrman 

“It’s Going To Be Alright”

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When I see photographs of you,

my breath catches in my throat,

my eyes sting with the salt of tears.

I touch your face with open lips

hoping the kiss travels the distance

to where you are.

 

You arrived on earth in splendor. 

Your epoch beauty blown across time – 

the white ivory skin, black wavy hair,

a body both athletic and alluring,

from tennis match to nightclub dancing

you seemed to have it all.

 

I adored you Mama,

As far back as I remember you never let me down,

every time I ran to you, you would pick me up, 

sooth me, place your soft, cool hand on my forehead, 

gently whisper in my ear “it’s going to be alright”

 

I remember you singing everyday 

filling our house up with Sinatra tunes,

or Nat King Cole, Broadway melodies 

or family lullabies, vacuuming and singing

changing bed sheets and singing,

cooking dinner and singing, always attentive, 

bright, cheerful, happily to be alive.

 

Until you weren’t.

 

Until the darkness came upon you,

a depression so pronounced you stumbled,

a hole in the heart so wide you couldn’t balance it.

All the drugs and doctors of the day 

only temporarily blocked it, held it back,

until it resurfaced again, and again, and again.

 

But you know what Mama? It doesn’t matter.

You came here on this planet with your story.

You traveled through an opened door of time

to be exactly who you were, 

in the exact second of who we were, to you.

 

Yes, all the songs are alive in us still.

The darkness evaporated in your ascended light.

We hum the tunes you left for us

and dance on the same hallowed ground

your feet traveled on.

 

When I encounter my own despair 

I remember the cool hand on my forehead

 

“It’s going to be alright” ringing in my ear.

Early Session Commute

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Early Session Commute

I like to stay up late at night and sleep late in the morning.  (See Night Owl)

But of course I couldn’t indulge those preferences during all my years working at a school,  especially the semesters I was on early session and had to punch a time clock at the ungodly hour of 7:40.

But then I had my morning routine down to a science – I’d set my alarm for 6:15 hit the snooze button until 6:30,  wash and dress by 7:00,  down a protein shake and get to my car by 7:20.   Then with my tea in a paper cup I’d drive to work during the infamous New York morning rush hour.  (See Going Back to Work)

But I live on Manhattan’s upper eastside and the school where I worked was in the Bronx,  and so if you know New York geography you know I’d be driving against the traffic.   I’d zip along in a  northbound lane while those poor souls heading south in rush hour traffic crawled along at a snail’s pace!

Not surprisingly I much preferred the semesters I was on late session and could get a little more sleep in the mornings.  But I must say on my early session commutes seeing the sun rise over the city was a rush hour treat!

– Dana Susan Lehrman