Frankly, I don’t know how I’ll survive my golden years. Conversations with my children  nowadays leave me wondering whether the people who inhabit our house truly came from my womb. Consider the following breakfast talk with my youngest son this  morning:

Son: What do you think of Elon Musk?
Me: I don’t think of him.
Son: What do you think of Brexit?
Me: I don’t think about it.
Son: What do you think of Ken Ham?
Me: I don’t think about them. (thinking of Christian apologists I don’t follow)
Son: Since when have you started using gender-neutral pronouns?
Me: Huh?
Son: Do you have a custom domain for your blog? Or is it just
Me: Just
Son: You should shift to github. No ads … completely static.
Me: Github?
Son: Good coffee always saves the world. (rising from the dining table)
Me: (looking down at my cup of green tea and thinking “I should have drunk coffee instead”)

But. Conversations that cause my head to spin are the least of my worries. There is always an antidote to questions that cannot be answered: silence. No, sirree … I have more pressing problems to deal with. It seems that my brain processing skills are slowing down to a more leisurely pace. The fact that I’ve been sleep-deprived for so long could have something to do with it.

Whatever. I cannot count the number of times when I’ve been called out by second son for asking questions that could have been answered by the remarks preceding it. Like the time second son was introducing a girl he met up with in the city for the first time.

Me: So, are you part of Counterflow? (assuming that must be where he met her)
Son: Mom, I just told you she’s not part of Counterflow!!
Me: Ah! Sorry, I didn’t hear. (flashing a lamebrain smile) 

I bit my tongue and refrained from posing the question “Aren’t you the girl he met up with yesterday?” Instead I turned to safer topics and asked “So, what course do you plan to take up at university?”

Believe me, it is only just now that I have come to realize how painful it must be for teenagers to introduce an airhead of a parent to their friends.





It was International Women’s Day yesterday?

Youth and beauty are not accomplishments.
                                                    Carrie Fisher

Yesterday, a friend whom I have not seen in more than two decades sent a greeting to mark International Women’s Day. Admittedly, there are many females whose accomplishments are worthy of celebration. But since most of them exist outside my bubble, I cannot relate to their struggles even though I deeply admire them.

Let’s get this straight. It’s not that we don’t care about the hardships that Michelle Obama and Ruth Baden Ginsburg (watch the trailer for her new documentary where she’s shown doing a plank here) went through. It’s just that their ascent to stratospheric heights has left us dizzy with dismay at the lack of opportunities in underdeveloped countries or countries with a male dominant culture. In places like these, a woman would have to be born into a wealthy or well-connected family to be educated and rise above the well-accepted lot of being a mere housewife. This is why I admire women like Iranian human rights activist Shirin Ebadi more than American women.

In reality, there are several women I admire from a distance. I marvel at how they have combined a career and family and managed to turn out independent, happy, productive children. Some of them are single mothers. Sadly, I have not seen most of them in decades so I have no idea of the struggles they went through to reach their present status. What I’d give to pick their brains over coffee, though! (I have a friend whom I asked for advise on raising boys and she reminded me that her son ran away at thirteen … so there’s that)

What I am waiting for actually … and this I cannot understand (I mean, among the billions of women in the planet, who can understand Sheryl Sandberg when she advises women to lean in?) because millions of women care for babies … is for the inventor of disposable diapers to be celebrated by print, social and broadcast media.

Hello??? Do you even know who she is? Nope, she’s not a Pampers executive. She’s Marion Donovan and like most women whose achievements were celebrated yesterday, she had to battle sexist thinking that her invention was unnecessary. You can read her story here.

Plus. You can read about Henrietta Lacks, Qiu Jin, Diane Arbus and other women of substance in the New York Times’ 15 Remarkable Women We Overlooked in our Obituaries. What better way to celebrate International Women’s Day than to educate yourself on women who are doing something to change the world, eh? If you have a daughter, do yourself a favor: tell her about them. 🙂

I honestly have not yet started on these books … but my daughter has read parts of them.

MOMents (on Billy Collins and MOMdays)

So my posts have tended to focus more and more on motherhood. That wasn’t intentional, believe me. But. What else can I write about when my life centers around MOMhood MOMents? Thus, inspiration struck again when I read Billy Collins’ poem The Moment. Just in case you haven’t read it, here it is:

The Moment

It was a day in June, all lawn and sky,
the kind that gives you no choice
but to unbutton your shirt
and sit outside in a rough wooden chair.

And if a glass of ice tea and an anthology
of seventeenth-century devotional poetry
with a dark blue cover are available,
then the picture can hardly be improved.

I remember a fly kept landing on my wrist,
and two black butterflies
with white and red wing-dots
bobbed around my head in the bright air.

I could feel the day offering itself to me,
and I wanted nothing more
than to be in the moment–but which moment?
Not that one, or that one, or that one,

or any of those that were scuttling by
seemed perfectly right for me.
Plus, I was too knotted up with questions
about the past and his tall, evasive sister, the future.

What churchyard held the bones of George Herbert?
Why did John Donne’s wife die so young?
And more pressingly,
what could we serve the vegetarian twins

we had invited for dinner that evening
not knowing then that they travel with their own grapes?
And who was the driver of that pickup
flying down the road toward the single railroad track?

And so the priceless moments of the day
were squandered one by one–
or more likely several thousand at a time–
with quandary and pointless interrogation.

All I wanted was to be a pea of being
at rest inside the pod of time,
but that was not going to happen today,
I had to admit to myself

as I closed the blue book on the face
of Thomas Traherne and returned to the house
where I lit a flame under a pot
full of water where some eggs were afloat,

and, while they were cooking,
stared into a little oval mirror by the sink
just to see if that crazy glass
had anything particular to say to me today.

Reading it this morning I realized that …

life is made up of moments
big and small,
some painful,
most ordinary
but for the joy
of  exhaling time well spent. 

But Collins’ poem does more than evoke memories of “priceless moments of the day  … squandered one by one” that would have been forgotten had they not been captured by my smartphone.

I can so easily relate to Collins’ “I could feel the day offering itself to me, and I wanted nothing more than to be in the moment …” whenever I take my seat in our dining table each morning – alone save for the chirping of our pet parakeets in the garden.

Collins’ question “And more pressingly, what could we serve the vegetarian twins we had invited for dinner?”  reflect most mothers’ anxieties about what meals to serve picky eaters,  always-hungry children, and other dinner companions.

Well … I’ve no glass of iced tea … but I sure love to drink tea in my Arabian-themed cup and saucer
Nor do I have an anthology of seventeenth-century devotional poetry with a dark blue cover … but I pilfered my late father’s anthology of poetry and store it in a plastic pack 🙂 It’s what I read whenever Momhood gets to be too much – nothing like quaint English to restore the senses, eh? As Collins says, “then the picture can hardly be improved.”

And what mother will fail to identify with Collins’ lines “All I wanted was to be a pea of being / at rest inside the pod of time, / but that was not going to happen today, / I had to admit to myself?

My daughter wrote this on the pan while cooking pancake for breakfast. Let’s face it, even though we moms feel like All I wanted was to be a pea of being / at rest inside the pod of time,love is what makes us get off the bed while still sleepy and start the day.

Most bizarre of all, I even have a “little … mirror by the sinkinto which I starejust to see if that crazy glass ha(s) anything particular to say to me today.” 

So yeah, I like Billy Collins’ poem very much though I daresay he did not have mothers in mind while composing it. Meanwhile, here are the MOMhood MOMents, “any of those that were scuttling by (which) seemed perfectly right to me.”  

It never fails to amaze me … I can be the last person to go to bed with no dirty dishes/cups/glasses/pots to wash but when I wake up, I’m always greeted by several dirty glasses. Did we have thirsty visitors in the night????
For someone who seldom ventures far from home, this photo reminded me that, yeah, the hubby and I had a weekend getaway at the Intercon in Dubai. Having stayed there five years ago, I looked forward to their Japanese buffet and was not disappointed.


Never thought that my brother would ask me questions about soaking vegetables. He did and I showed him this Savoy lettuce in our sink – because I was cooking fried noodles the evening he asked.
If there’s one plant that should be associated with motherhood, it’s this: Euphorbia mili otherwise known as the Crown of Thorns or Christ Plant … because, really,  isn’t a daily dying to oneself a crown of thorns?

Meanwhile …

In a few days, the Louvre Abu Dhabi will be opened to the public. Many people will go just for the experience of being inside a museum. Hopefully, they will appreciate the works on display, 300 of which are on loan from France. The Louvre, however, is not the only noteworthy museum in the UAE. The Sharjah Art Museum, while located in a part of town that is not conducive to parking, contains fabulous works by Middle Eastern artists. There is one particular piece that I really, really liked by a Yemeni painter:







Here is the complete painting:


It may not qualify as a MOMhood MOMent but …. surely looking at a great work of art up close and personal is a blissful twinkle of time, eh? 🙂  Would Billy Collins have liked it? I don’t know but since he admits to getting too knotted up with questions about the past, and his tall, evasive sister, the futurewho knows?




On Ishiguro’s Nobel Prize, motherhood, and memories

After all, what can we ever gain in forever looking back and blaming ourselves if our lives have not turned out quite as we might have wished?
Kazuo Ishiguro, Remains of the Day

So. The hubby is returning back to work tomorrow after a cycling accident that rendered me awestruck at the miracles we witnessed. To write or not to write – that is the question. Because to me, whose digital footprint spans three blogs, there are just some milestones and moments that are too precious, too close to the heart to be shared with strangers. Thus. At the moment, all I want to proclaim is Hallelujah! God is good. God is sovereign. He cares. He provides. Angels to carry us …. I will write anyway, please keep on reading. 🙂

Like everyone else, life sucks me into a vortex of busyness that months later makes one ask “Where did the hours go?”

Maybe that’s also what Stevens, the butler, thought at the end of Kazuo Ishiguro’s Remains of the Day. Who really knows? But yes … it must be. Stevens’ ruminations on his past life while traveling through the British countryside can – if you think about it long enough – be brought to conclusion with the question “Where did the years go?” It’s the query to end time travels to the past.

Which, as any housewife can tell you, is a question that most mothers ponder at the end of the day, er, years of their servitude as household managers, cook, laundromat, etc …. Hopefully, you get the point.

But that’s not why I’m writing today. Yesterday morning, I could not get back to sleep. The subject on my mind was the previous night’s news: the 2017 Nobel Prize for Literature had gone to Ishiguro, “who, in novels of great emotional force, has uncovered the abyss beneath our illusory sense of connection with the world.” 

Having slogged through his last book, The Buried Giant, I was stupefied that an author whose last work had brought down my esteem for his writing had won. (My review of  The Buried Giant is here.)

The hubby, bless his heart, does not overthink. He gets up, reads the Bible, digests the news, then thinks of the jobs to do around the house that need his attention. Me? I overthink. All the time. It’s a bad habit, I know (and the reason why I can never finish an entire stack of clothes to be ironed.)

Back to yesterday morn: I sat up in bed and mused on my years of motherhood. Then struggled to rationalize the committee’s choice. In a flash, the lightbulb moment came despite the lack of coffee. Authors win the Nobel Prize because they not only distill our experiences into words that conjure images in our mind and sensations in our hearts, approximating how we feel to a degree that is uncanny for a work of fiction… according to Waseda University Prof. Koji Toko, Ishiguro’s win reflects the fact that “vague sensations such as memories, nostalgia and delusions are what constitute the reality of our lives.”

Do they? Frankly, I don’t think so. But. Let’s face it, the fictional lives that authors create so resonate with us because we can easily step into their shoes of their characters. In fact, most often, we wish we were in their shoes. Literally.

I suppose all well-loved writers accomplish those things. In my case, I hated The Buried Giant yet have to concede that for all the cumbersome work of wading through its pages,  Ishiguro still accomplished his goal in writing it. I was left with the sense that a “mist of forgetfulness” can serve a higher purpose in life (the fact that I am now entering the golden years and have become forgetful has no bearing on this sentiment, believe it or not). Don’t we all wish to erase certain memories? As the Swedish Academy’s secretary Sara Danius remarked, Ishiguro won for “exploring what you have to forget in order to survive in the first place as an individual or as a society.”

Then too, like Stevens, I have often wondered whether, with graying hair and feeble bones, I will be forced to be content with whatever remains of my current life will still be there in the future. Like Stevens, whose blind loyalty to his foolish employer kept him from seeking relationships, have I been blind to the emotional needs of my children as I struggle to keep the house spic and span? The latter is something I feel ambivalent about – it’s how stay-at-home mothers are judged – not only because I like order but because it takes away a lot of time from mothering. Age has brought security in my choices, yes, but should I have been less fastidious and mothered more?

Perhaps I would not have pondered Ishiguro’s win so much if I had not had experienced memory loss and its effects so close to home recently. But the hubby’s incoherent babbling and transformation to Dory forcefully reminded me that we are creatures of memory as much as habit. Memories shape our responses to love, loss, the passage of time and emotions such as regret  if not as equally well as the physical reality of the present.

Would amnesia leave as much devastation if memory and time were not inexplicably linked? Why is it that older memories are always associated with our younger selves? For most of humanity, photographs bear silent witness to what others may dismiss as figments of our imagination. For the hubby, his Tomtom testified that he crashed at exactly 6:28 pm on the last Tuesday evening of September. Without it, we would have been forced to rely only on the testimony memory of his cycling companions. Because. Try as he can, the hubby cannot recall the events leading to and after his crash.

But. Enough of thinking! There’s one difference between Stevens and moi. I’m married to the boss of the house, ha, ha. Ishiguro  and I both share one thing in common, though: spouses who enable us to write by picking up our slack in housework. Meanwhile …  being a night owl …  here’s my favorite quote from Remains of the Day:

You’ve got to enjoy yourself. The evening’s the best part of the day. You’ve done your day’s work. Now you can put your feet up and enjoy it. That’s how I look at it. Ask anybody, they’ll all tell you. The evening’s the best part of the day. 

Frau Maria, this is for you: THE KINDNESS of STRANGERS

I have always depended on the kindness of strangers.
               Blanche Dubois in A Streetcar Named Desire

Several months ago, I had no idea that there was a sisterhood of mothers with grown and flown children. When I learned about the group, my immediate thought was “Nah, my eldest still has one more year to go before leaving home.” And then. Our eldest bared his plans after high school graduation. It meant leaving for another continent during the summer before twelfth grade to pursue a B2 language certification. It’s a prerequisite when one is applying to a public university in Europe.

Two months. Away from me. Away from us, the family.

My heart went beep, beep. There were late-night discussions with the hubby on doing what’s best for our child’s future. There were number-crunching dialogues on how we will send four children to university.  There were questions as to whether this was an answer to prayer. Was this a way out of sending our boy(s) to the Philippines where teenage boys are being killed with impunity? The boy and his father went over his goals and options repeatedly, an activity that they had begun maybe two or three years ago.

In the end, we both agreed that, whether he’d be accepted into a German university or not in the future, this child needed to further his language studies. After all, he had exhibited incredible self-discipline (he deleted his FB account to focus on his language studies which was conducted entirely at home) to attain A1 and A2 mastery and be eligible for a B1 class in the language school where he was enrolling.

And. We all agreed that the optimal plan was to send him away. The only other option was to enroll him in a language school in the city where he would have to pay rent but not get the immersion experience that he needed. Both options required the same financial investment but the latter offered the lesser return.

When your child is flying alone for the first time, what do you do? We guessed that most flights were delayed due to the outward-bound flights of G20 leaders that day. 

Why does supporting kids in their pursuits and plans almost always tear the heart? I don’t mean this in a negative way but when I consider my children’s abilities (one son can play the drum, guitar and piano – and we never paid for music lessons for him!) I am always heartbreakingly blown away at the feats they have accomplished at such a young age. They surpass me, these seeds that grew in my womb.

Back to our eldest. This is the child who did not care for the German language classes that he was forced to endure in ninth grade. The child who had resisted purchasing a language program because “Duolingo is free.” And now here he was, begging permission and money. We had no choice but to acquiesce. But our German friends whom we’d visited last year were moving to the US three weeks after my son would arrive. It was uncertain where he would stay afterwards. Nevertheless, he flew and we prayed for the best.

Indeed, his experience was more than we could have hoped for: he stayed with a family where he was forced to think and speak German all the time.

So. Now, here he is again and I’m awash in tears. Not by his presence. But by the letter that he handed to me within minutes of our arrival at home. There’s a line that opened the floodgates (or it could be hormones at this period in my life) amidst praise for my son’s language ability and a reminder to trust in God.


Reading it, I’m awestruck at the thought that the woman who became his surrogate mother, a working mom with small children still at home,  spared time to pen a letter to me, his birth mother. It’s handwritten. Who writes handwritten letters nowadays? Members of my generation, mothers with grown and flown children who understand each other’s concerns though we’re geographically and culturally worlds apart.

Indeed, I’m staggered at how she opened her home to my son despite being so busy with her own family and work. It’s not something I would have thought to do, being so tired of taking care of myself and my own brood. Beyond that, she affirmed our parenting and sought to quiet a mother’s heart. For being there and holding my child’s heart, Frau Maria, thank you.

I will give you a new heart and put a new spirit in you; I will remove from you your heart of stone and give you a heart of flesh. Ezekiel 36:26 (NIV)

On being a Christian, motherhood and life after forty

Now really, I’ve just been dragged along this techno revolution where one had to upgrade every few years to a newer and sleeker version of a gadget that was only in the realms of science fiction during my adolescence. Thus, you did not find me ruing the fact that  Facetime and Viber are banned in the UAE. Because – goodness! With so many channels for communicating, why would one need Facetime and Viber?

Still … maybe it’s a good thing that there are apps that allow people to chat without being physically tied to an oral conversation over the phone. A person can reply at one’s leisure. The negative side is that one is always distracted by the constant stream of messages from different sources. Also. They do not afford privacy, according to my privacy-obsessed 13yo who uses ProtonMail and has converted my smartphone browser from Safari to Duck Duck Go. Hubby says it’s appropriate for me since I am constantly making dakdak, ha, ha.

Anyway, several days ago in a group chat, someone posted “If and when (insert hubby’s name) loses his job (hopefully not), that’s only when you’ll find your true allegiance.”

Duh? Being a writer, words are my love language. I feel their implied meanings, the emotions they convey, the angst they arouse, etc … I was tempted to reply. But did not .

Later, I discussed it with the hubby. Implicit in the statement, we both agreed, was the insinuation that my Christianity hinges on the comfortable life we have abroad in contrast to those residing in the Philippines. Yet. Much as I resented the innuendo, I had initiated a conversation on that same topic two years ago with close friends. We’d asked ourselves: What if we were to be suddenly destitute? Would our Christianity suffer or would we remain faithful till the end? And we agreed that it’s not so much that we’re shallow Christians, it’s that we don’t know ourselves that much to be sure that we will never complain of hardships. I mean, if we can’t help but compare and complain of financial and physical strains right now, how will we be able to endure financial and physical suffering in the future?

Now I’ve been a born-again Christian for more than 20 years and being one is at the core of Me. It permeates nearly every decision I make, nearly every thought I have, and nearly every action I take. I say ‘nearly’ because clearly there are some things I still grapple with. For example, were I not a Christian I would buy a pair of shoes every month. It’s not difficult to do so when UAE stores average four to five sales every year (four seasons plus Ramadan). But how can I teach my children not to be materialistic when they see my row of handbags imported from the US, some of which have not been used for several years?

Then again, I struggle with the injunction not to let the right hand know what the left hand is doing. I think we should tell our children where our tithes, offerings and donations are going just so they’ll know we are obeying God’s call to give back what is rightfully His and that we’re not spending for our needs and pleasure only. I believe we should model financial generosity but will that make them more generous when they become wage earners? How does one model generosity in a town where there are no slum dwellers or homeless?

I know we’re supposed to reach out with the gospel but really, how can I reach out when I’m tired all the time? Heck, I can’t even keep the house in order all the time, what with the laundry, ironing, cooking, homeschooling two kids, and the sand, the sand, the sand! that gets into the house even when there hasn’t been a sandstorm. How can I reach out to others when just keeping my sanity is wearing me down all the time?

Life may begin at forty but I know there are others out there who will agree that middle age sucks big time when you’re undergoing perimenopause. It’s a sisterhood that one is violently inducted to by nature. And it’s exacerbated by the fact that those around you have no idea why you can’t sleep when you’re so sleepy and why you feel inflamed for two years then feel frozen all of a sudden all the time. Believe me, the first time I visited an ob-gyne, I broke down. It was a relief to finally have someone completely understand what I was going through. Without. Any. Judgment. (I once confessed to a friend about trying not to use my situation to excuse my bad behavior and I was downright disheartened when she pointed out someone who was able to do so. Caveat was that mother had several maids to attend to her needs! To me, if you’ve got a maid, I can’t reach you. Sorry.)

I look at Jeremiah and wonder how he continued to be faithful in the face of scorn and ostracism. How could he? What was God thinking when He chose Jeremiah to deliver a message that He knew would be rejected? Maybe I should be inspired by Jeremiah’s devotion to his creator. After all, I have teenagers who are increasingly stubborn about doing things their way. But no. Methinks my diatribes sermons speeches started falling on deaf ears years ago when they began going to school.

How does one contend with a God who tells you to proclaim an unpopular message? Surrender to Babylon or die! Today, that would be tantamount to sleeping with the enemy, nay, treason. If I were in Jeremiah’s place, would I have been faithful?

I. Really. Don’t. Know. But I have a suspicion I may not be. Just like in the hypothetical situation above wherein our source of income has been cut off.

Perhaps I think like this because I belong to a church that equates growth with active service and regular attendance in church activities. Which, to me, seems like a stunted way of becoming like Christ because honestly, how can one grow spiritually without practicing the spiritual disciplines and being connected to the source of that spirituality in the first place. How can one grow in love or mature unless one is in the path to which God has called you? Why isn’t motherhood honored as a worthy calling? If your primarily calling is inside the house, why isn’t it affirmed to be as worthy as visible ministries? I suspect that many church workers would have less discipline problems at home if they prioritized their families first.

And really. Without being mean about it, a person’s level of personal spiritual growth is reflected in one’s words and values not by 100% attendance in bible studies. Thus, even though one has no intention of measuring a fellow believer’s spiritual maturity, one can know just by learning what a friend watches or does in his/her spare time. Paul’s injunction to think about “whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable—if anything is excellent or praiseworthy” (Philippians 4:8) may be archaic, yes, but they’re still relevant to our times in light of the trash that is produced by television and film producers.

Not saying here we shouldn’t watch movies but that we should practice discernment concerning our spiritual intake much the same way we control the food that we eat. Because the world’s values seep in and permeate our mind without our knowing it. Perhaps, then, I shouldn’t be surprised that we are in a church where most believers values are shaped not by the Word (“they deserve to die because they’re bad people” is a common refrain for defending Duterte’s drug war) but by the world.

Last night, my eldest asked me to call. So I did. In our conversation, he remarked “You never call me, it’s always Dad who calls.” That sort of blanked me. I’d sent messages via SMS, What’s App and Messenger without getting a reply sometimes. I thought I’d been gradually letting go gracefully. I’d greeted him “Good morning!” and kissed him “Goodnight!” with nary an emoji save for a thumbs up. Sometimes. And now this. Just when he’s about to return. I was at a loss and stammered “It’s your Dad who’s always upset when you don’t communicate. Just a sign from you in the morning and before you sleep is okay with me.” And then we discussed sundry things.

The truth is: I’m trying to find the right balance. How does one let go of a person whom you spewed out of your womb without breaking down on the outside? How does one try not to smother a child? Boys are funny creatures, you know? They don’t like the feeling that they’re being controlled. They don’t like being told what to do. Wily creature that I am, I thought I’d been giving my boy more independence. Yet “I’m always low priority” is what I now hear. And. The Old Testament isn’t much help. It’s a struggle to find inspiration.  Tell me, how does one navigate midlife motherhood beyond the feels?

PS. Here are some noteworthy articles on motherhood in the Old Testament by Claude Mariottini, Professor of Old Testament at Northern Baptist Seminary

I dreamed last night

Found an old poem written years ago …

I dreamed last night of the (insert name here) tree
Atop the Thousand Steps
From where we rowed a banca
When we fished for tilapia
The summer we turned twenty.

I’d never seen a kapre or dwende before
Though they’re common in folklore
But Lola’s tales before she died
Swiftly rendered me tongue-tied.

Oh, it was a fearful sight!
Standing above in a circle of light
Sword at his side, with whiskers brown and ugly,
Clothed in belted, black tunic, a kapre glared malevolently.

“Halt!” cried he while his minions
Blocked the escape trail to Muzon
And an army of dwendes garbed in green
Descended from nearby Curly Mountain.

“The password or your life!” he threatened me.
Looking around for Ali Baba’s cave, I
Saw dew-dropped leaves glitter obliquely
Like diamonds on a lightning-struck sky.

‘Twas the same (insert name here) tree
With its verdant, rustling canopy
Where we’d carved our initials that third of May
Before dusk drowned out the light of day.

I never gave the password
That surreal scene
Of a leprechaun and elves in green
And a first love’s kiss
Amidst the smell of fish
Are all I can now remember
Of a long and blissful summer.