When I lay my head in my motherís lap
I think how day hides the star,
the way I lay hidden once, waiting
inside my motherís singing to herself. And I remember
how she carried me on her back
between home and the kindergarten,
once each morning and once each afternoon.
I donít know what my motherís thinking.
When my son lays his head in my lap, I wonder:
Do his fatherís kissses keep his fatherís worries
from becoming his? I think, Dear God, and remember
there are stars we havenít heard from yet:
They have so far to arrive. Amen,
I think, and I feel almost comforted.
Iíve no idea what my child is thinking.
Between two unknowns, I live my life.
Between my mother's hopes, older than I am
by coming before me. And my child's wishes, older than I am
by outliving me. And what's it like?
Is it a door, and a good-bye on either side?
A window, and eternity on either side?
Yes, and a little singing between two great rests.
ó Li-Young Lee
Book of My Nights
The past should be a springboard
not a hammock.
~ Irving Ball