Sara Ries Dziekonski        St. Petersburg      (Maureen McDole)
Rewind  
 
The days are not equal mixing bowls  
of time. A moment can be a slow stir 
through the country, or a dash to another  
country, map melted in mouth,  
                    new set of keys jingling in your pocket.  
A glance can be a year, or a walk down  
the stairs, like how my closer to three  
than four year old came down post nap so  
casually, said Hi Mommy.        
   

                He used to call my name 
                       when he woke, and I’d rub his back  
until he was ready to be lifted from the crib 
to rejoin the world. 
                We’d rock back  
and forth, then peek through the blinds 
at the house being built next door. 
                  I’d hum him a song I used to listen to 
when I was small, incessantly pressing rewind 
on my CD player to jot down every lyric 
of my favorite songs on silver moons. 
            
             But today  
                              is a stone skipped into 
               many tomorrows, and my son        got older  
in one sleep. 

He came down so casually, said Hi Mommy 
as though about to grab cereal and pour 
himself a bowl, / came down  
so casually as though swinging 
a backpack over his sturdy shoulder to catch  
the bus / came down so casually  
as though about to fix his coffee 
and locate his briefcase, / came down so casually 
as though I am on the sofa of     his house,  
                       and he’s about to ask me 
      if I’ve remembered to take my medicine / — 
​
My son came down so casually, 
and there’s not one unscratched / 
          way to rewind.
​