Posted on by Amy Suardi

Endings without Goodbyes

Distance learning packets stand in towers of varying heights
on a table at the high school
I have come to take them for my daughters
but they’re really for me

I want an excuse to come inside here
before they close for good

I want to fill my arms with paper
to feel something solid
I am trying to stay afloat
in a sea of skinny blue links,
invalid usernames, and
portals that lead to no one

I scan the packet titles — World History, Biology, English —
but I don’t see my daughters’ courses
Do you have AP classes? I ask the counselor
“These are for people without internet access,” she says
and I feel embarrassed of my neediness

I take a COVID-19 fact sheet and walk out of the office
to the front door, pausing in the atrium

It smells of cafeteria food, cheap industrial cleaner, and feet
and I realize how much I love this place

Tears bulge, as my thoughts travel to
my daughter, in her last few months of senior year,
who may have to leave without saying good-bye

Posted on by Amy Suardi

10 Meows

“No more than 5 people
in the waiting room at a time,”
a sign taped to the door of the veterinary clinic says.

I walk in with three children.
We are bringing in our cat Frankie for surgery.

The kids argued over who would carry him to the car,
who would put him on their lap.

Frankie looks terrified but doesn’t make a sound
until I stop at a red light
and our eyes meet through the black mesh

“He just meowed four times!” Luke says.

In the waiting room there is a woman
carrying a Persian cat
and wearing blue surgical gloves.

On the counter are two cups of pens for signing forms:
one labeled ‘dirty’, one labeled ‘clean.’

When they tell us it’s time to leave Frankie,
I pick up the carrier, he mews,
and we all say, “10 meows.”
The lady with the Persian cat smiles.

We smile back,
and as we walk toward the door,
keeping our distance.


Posted on by Amy Suardi

Playdate Offender

I feel like I have committed a crime
I tried to organize a playdate for my kids
The school system said this week is our new spring break
No road trip to Ohio in April to their grandparents’ farm

I wonder if my name will be put on some kind of blacklist
by the parents who didn’t respond for days to the email that said,

“Playdate?”

My son’s best friend’s family said yes
to one there Tuesday
one here Thursday

I am a sociopath
For merging two families’ germ pools, contact histories

Neighbors walk by and examine this child playing nerf guns with mine
who yell his name so loud in our backyard
everyone must know by now
what I have done

And I feel a guilt so cutting that I have to go to bed early
with a headache and a cool feeling in my nose

This is the beginning of coronavirus,
I’m convinced

Serves you right,
they will say

Posted on by Amy Suardi

Spring Break

Sofia, 18, is knitting an Irish Moss stitch blanket
with warm cream skeins of chunky yarn
and doing virtual tours of colleges

Virginia, 16, is sketching portraits of
beautiful women, singers, and icons
on cut squares of watercolor paper
to decorate her room

Mark, 11, says, “I think we need to take a break
from video games,” even though it’s the thing
he most looks forward to

Luke, 9, racks up points for burping, farting,
being mean to his little sister, and saying potty words,
and then enjoys the jobs he gets as a consequence

Diana, 6, loses her first tooth
and gets her first computer account
in the same week



Posted on by Amy Suardi

Hidden Grief

All of Western culture is suffering from very profound grief. We are not comfortable with impermanence. We try to fix things in time and space, but because impermanence characterizes our lives in a very fundamental way, we are in a constant state of loss.

— Joan Halifax, American Zen Buddhist teacher