Midnight Mutterings | Celebration

||| MIDNIGHT MUTTERINGS by JACKIE BATES |||

Celebration

On the eve of my birthday
I take the night shift
with Emma Skye, who slipped
into the air just two weeks ago.

Half the weight of my cat,
she snuggles under my chin.
I cup her frogged legs,
my shirt shielded by a diaper
the size of my hand.

At midnight, we get up to dance
in celebration of our births,
mine so many decades ago now.

She is a fine dancer and will stay up
as long as the band is playing,
humming a little to herself.

Finally, we take a break.
I lean back into the pillows,
prop my feet on a stool,
fold my legs to make a baby chair.

For a while she is unsettled by hiccoughs,
but when they quiet, she looks into my face.
Her dark blue eyes search mine,
sometimes one at a time, sometimes together.

She flails her starfish hands; explores
her repertoire of impressions:
first the pig face with accompanying
low grunts. Then her mouth opens,
and she mimes a sleek dolphin.

That makes her grin. She produces a dimple
and flashes pink gums, her tongue curled
around an absent nipple while one eye wanders off.

My laughter startles her and she flings
her arms wide, frowns, but does not cry.

Warm on my legs, she breathes noisily, arches
for a small burp, relaxes into a sigh.

And sleeps.

Note: Some years before Emma Skye was born, I met her mother when she was a student teacher at the Orcas Island Elementary School. We kept in touch after she returned to Bellingham where Emma Skye was born. Eighteen years later, in early June, 2024, Emma graduated high school in Bellingham. Recently, in my house on Orcas, a pile of papers fell from the stairs to the loft. This poem was on top of the scattered papers on the floor. I don’t remember writing it, but it recalled that long, lovely night I danced with tiny Emma.