by kelli russell agodon
— Port Townsend, Washington
Imagine this: it’s the day before Easter
and beautiful if you love sun
and birdsong and egg hunts, but not
if you’re wishing for rain, if you think Jesus
is a distraction from real life and birdsong
is the unexpected alarm now waking you
before 6 a.m. But it is, beautiful, the day before
Easter and you have to drive forty-five minutes
to watch your daughter at a two-minute Easter egg
hunt, but that is three hours from now
and right now, you’re in a room typing a poem.
Imagine this: It’s the week before Easter
and you’ve planned a writing retreat with friends,
to go to a haunted apartment to write
for five full days, five full days, because there is
nothing more you want to do
than lose yourself in your words. But you’ve
learned to stop saying “retreat” and use
the term “residency” because others
think you’re on vacation, some sort of
girl’s weekend with wine and pedicures. No,
this is where they’ve become confused.
This is where a friend says, It’s so nice
your husband can watch your daughter
as if he’s not related to her, as if he’s not
responsible for her care. And there was
this week I found myself
annoyed because my daughter’s teacher
wrote me after my husband went
on a field trip with her class:
Your husband was a wonderful chaperone.
Thank you for sharing
him with us. And I wanted to hit
reply say, Dads get points
just for showing up. Imagine
the teacher ever writing
my husband to say, Thanks for sharing
your wife with us. Thank you
for not only being a dad who showed up,
but also a Filipino dad,
you’ve added so much diversity
to this busload of white kids.
Imagine this: It’s the day before
Easter and I’m beautiful
and not bitter that my generation is still
stuck between women who live
for their men and the girls who expect
more. Maybe they will resent
their husbands for caring too much
about hairstyles, for using product.
There’s an Easter Egg hunt in less than
three hours and I’m frothing
about relationships, about already having drank
my first cup of coffee and it’s empty,
instead of realizing I’m still here, in this
room looking out to a forest
of blackberry bramble, of trees with moss
on the north side, just like
in the Camp Fire Girl book I had as a child
when I believed that good deeds
created beads and patches and I could rename
myself Kekoa because it meant
Brave One, because I would grow up
to be thankful for my ability to start
fires when the other girls fumbled with their flint.
And while in this town, Jesus is a distraction
because he’s walking up the street in a tiny toga
with an Elvis in wings
singing, Hunka-hunka burning love during the Easter
parade because it’s hippie-dippie here.
I know where I reside best and how I can leave
last minute from a beautiful day-before-
Easter-morning to arrive back into my life of family
members who forget to drag the garbage
down to the corner and be thankful I only start fires
because someone needs warmth
but otherwise, I can leave the flint in my pocket and
no longer create spark just to prove I’m the best.