Confections

-for Vera

When the banana slug on the porch step

just above where I sat

had the audacity to reach down

for my donut, a chocolate-glazed old fashioned

starting to melt a little in the sun,

my life as the mother of Vera flashed before my surprised eyes.

The weight of my baby's head in the palm of my hand.

Her fat fingers grasping sand

in a San Francisco park.

Hair flying, running, smiling

at an inside joke like a Zen Master.

Crafting words,

describing the absurd world,

running faster with egg-beater gait 

like Seabiscuit.

Quick wit with pointy

knees and elbows

shoving Dad out of bed on stormy nights.

Big sister

with brown eyes that

remind me to notice

every moment.

The quickening, like insistent kicking,

not gas,

while I sat in my wooden front row medical school seat

looking at histology slides,

the cells of the liver,

where pregnancy met hepatology.

Not knowing then how I'd grieve when she

no longer could be lifted 

to rest on my hips while we walked,

skinny, tan arms wrapped around my neck.

Redwoods, runs, books,

slugs in sun attempting donut thievery.

Mundane, underrated, interrelated 

miracles of confection and conception.