Bubble Mornings with my Baby

a sestina

It’s not 5 am. The shutters blink against the dark, hold back the daybreak

while the bedframe sighs & turns on her side. In the sleepy quiet

of the morning, socks stretch from toe to top & night-dried hair bubbles

out from under the sheets. Your daddy snores. The dog’s warm

belly hugs my leg. This is sleeping. One more hour. This is dream.

Your little hands hold my cheeks, kiss my nose & scream: Mama!

Let’s go! Mama! Outside! Outside! “ok-ok” I say, “little baby, just give mama

a minute.” But there’s no waiting. You rush away, make a break

for the closet, pile shoes & shoes & socks & shorts in a surrealist dream-

scape. You’ve got three fingers in a sandal & I thank this concentrated quiet

for the chance to pee. I consider dressing, but it’s still summery & warm

& I’ve spent my allotment of solitary minutes rinsing soap bubbles

down the sink. “damn bubbles” I mutter to myself & the Bubbles!

laugh their way to you. Better that than “damn” I guess. Score one for this mama.

Bubbles! Outside! Let’s go! Bubbles! You sound like bells, twinkling & warm.

You jump not-off-the-ground-at-all, but full of effort & almost break

your neck trying to pull the birthday bubbles from the shelf. They teeter quietly

tipping quickly on the edge before I grab them. Delighted, you spin as if in a dream

& blow kisses through an imagined wand, a slow-motion dream

where night falls away & you’re surrounded by a thousand shimmery bubbles

incandescent and holy, falling from the sky like so many round & quiet

pins of light. Oh little baby, you’ll never know how your mama

spent all her wishes down to the marrow, all her magic for just this break—

how she’d give up every luxury: music, laughter, love, hot coffee & a warm

bed for this—early mornings on the front porch with you in warm

socks but no britches dancing this bubble dream

your no-jump catching the bubbles & grab-smash-break-

-stomping them with glee. Mama! More! More bubbles!

So I blow more. The sleepy house shakes her head, whispers “mama

you’re a sucker” & I know she’s right. I laugh a quiet

laugh. The sun is up & pouring his loud light over the last quiet

of the mountains in the distance. They wink their knowing & warm

peaks at me. They know it’s hard to be a good mama

& they think I’m doing alright. I hold on to a bit of that dream,

hope that someday you’ll think so too. I blow the last of the bubbles

in the air. Tell you “they’re all gone” & in a single beat, break

your heart. You’re not quiet about it. You wail your dream

of bubbles in stuttering warm breath against my neck Bub-bles!

“sweet girl,” I say “your mama loves you, it’s just a little break.”

 Sherre Vernon