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Jelly Belly by Tara Zafft



Jelly Belly

 

My daughter calls this morning on her way to buy a bagel, it’s

raining she says, grey and spring-raining, and here

 

the sun just set and I’m wearing linen shorts and a t-shirt she

gave me, and l listen, I am learning to listen, learning that learning

 

never stops, learning to be a different kind of mother, they

don’t want advice, but which probiotic would you recommend? and

 

can you re-send the challah recipe, and by the way, do

crystals really have any power? I remember when they were little

 

I’d take them with me to Scarlet and Sage in the Mission,

when I needed more nettle leaves or sage, they

 

would put their heads in the big bins of herbs, dig through

the stones, feeling for the one that felt just right, a talisman,

 

just a reminder that I love you, just a reminder

that you are beautiful and strong

 

but now I say nothing, my silence the greatest

gift, no one told me about this part of mothering, the

 

slipping in shadows, and I ask my mom, and she says,

yes you were the same and yes I did the same, and I guess

 

that is what we do, expand and retract like an accordion, and I

remember when my youngest at three asked me why I had a jelly belly

 

and she had a firm belly, and I said my belly was like an accordion, getting

big and small when I made babies and then gave them to the world, three

 

whole times?  she asked, but are you sad you have a jelly belly, and I

scooped her in my arms and said my jelly belly made

 

the most beautiful music, and she squeezed me and whispered in my ear,

then I want a jelly belly too.

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