Fork

No one prepares you 
sufficiently, at least,
for the moment your 
flatware drawer won't budge
because something
is blocking the glide path.

No one holds your hand
while you swear in PG-13
as you try to diagnose
the unseen log jam:

Another 
splintered 
chopstick?
No.

Yet one more 
virtuously-acquired
yet never-used
aluminum straw?
Nope.

Perhaps a pho spoon? 
Those are wide
and wiley. 
Not today.

On bent knee 
and strained back
I peer in at eye level.

I see a glint of yellow
and a hint of blue
and recognition dawns.

My throat closes
my breath catches
my eyes water.

The air lingers sharply
in my raspy esophagus —
and this one time 
it's not due to pollen. 

I gently pry out 
the diminutive utensil
at the heart of the fuss.
I place my palm around
its wee handle.

The one with 
the petite open heart
that caught so many 
stray steamed broccoli bits.

A million tired,
tender memories
flood my brain.

My baby's little fork.
Her Munchkin set.
Her weaning tool.

The one I bought
in our old house
for her new existence
with her first father.

The device
purchased 
and used 
and washed
and dropped
and lost
and stuck
and found
uncountable times.

A lifetime apart
from this moment 
in my old-new house
with my tween kid
and my new-old 
husband's and our
current reality.

No one gave me
guidance on how 
it would tear me apart
to discover a small
piece of our daughter's 
toddlerhood.

I can feel in my hand
the endless 
lukewarm bowls
of milk-laced
sweet potato puree.
Of kale mash
and ground beef
and brown rice
and smashed banana.
Of her first taste of 
mint chocolate chip:
"Too Min-Tee!"

I can hear the 
faint scraping
of the metal 
against porcelain
that I cradled while 
making wide arc dives
with the 
festively colored fork
into her babbling, 
awaiting mouth.

No one prepared me 
for the last time 
I would feed her.

No one told me
that childhood 
would fly like
high speed Internet
from fetus 
to four-year-old
to forever scoffing
screenager.

I mean, they did — 
those annoying old ladies
in the grocery store
while I was still swollen 
from delivery 
bleeding and blearily 
pushing a yowling newborn. 

Those elderly
well-intentioned
mayhem bestowers,
they did say: "It goes so fast!" 

Right before they scolded:
"Sleep while the baby sleeps!" 
and then tottered off,
unbothered, back to
their own child-free carts.

Yes,
they told me —
But I did not feel it 
until now. 

No one prepared me 
that a new life was 
headed all our ways.
No, 
I did not see it coming.

No one suggested I 
should ready myself 
for the first time 
she would say:
"No! I do it!" 
And hold the fork 
to her tiny lips 
on her own.

No one braced me 
for how a cheap, 
mass-market 
plasticky thing
would force my attention.

How it would
have me weeping
in the dappled light
of a quiet kitchen 
in the middle of
a work-from-home day.
I was just here for
a brief moment
to grab a teaspoon
for afternoon tea.

No one clued me in
that her growth 
from breast to bowl 
to side-eye scowl
would be my 
first 
and last
go at motherhood.

I hold the miniature fork
close to my chest 
with my left
while I use my right hand
to search for its mates. 

I gather its fraternal twin
a sweet small spoon.
I find their cousin,
a second spoon in hues
of yellow and papaya.

I'm full-on emotional,
calculating how time flies.
She's closer to grad school 
than she is to her time 
crawling in diapers.

I know what I need to do
and it pains me but it's right.
I place the family trio
on a cloth placemat
while I go retrieve a Ziploc. 

I place each item
down into the bag
and zip the top as I
deliver an hoc prayer:

"Thank you for feeding
my little one.
May you go and serve
many other children."

I walk from dining room
to The Good Will Pile (TM)
in the mud room.
I lower the baby dining set 
into the yawning jaws 
of a cardboard parcel.

"Bring your new charges
happy memories of 
being loved
in warm kitchens 
by people who care.
Your tour of duty
here is complete."

No one told me
that Munchkins
morph into 
Middle Schoolers
faster than your drawer
— or your heart —
can get un-stuck.