The Light We Throw

jp5rutrnaes-mark-rabeDriving south on 116, determined
not to miss the bus like yesterday,
my daughter chooses the soundtrack
of this wet morning, a precipitous mix
of snow and rain and angsty lyrics.
She mentions how much better
her outfit would look with Doc Martens,
hinting at the Hanukkah gift she knows
I know she knows awaits her.
She assures me she doesn’t, like, need
anything, but offers updated wish lists
like the cuddles and kisses I still covet.
I say “I love you” to my wife and youngest
before we leave, scolding myself gently
for the morbid flashes of black ice
and no return. We sit in the parking lot
waiting for the bus, a prosaic moment
I will insist on turning into poetry later.
We are incorrigible, the whole lot
of us, stubborn in being who we are.
And in these shortest of days, I find
that my heart will twist in any direction
to get a glimpse of the light we throw
off when the others aren’t looking.

4 thoughts on “The Light We Throw

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