Getting Lost in My Own Neighborhood
by J.B. Rowell

We set out on mother-daughter walk.
At the end of my hand a full smile,
I smile back. Down the trail
in our still-new neighborhood,
to the lake with strategically-placed
boulders for viewing.
We sit on the one with a cradle
for our conversation, listening
to each other, to the ebb and flow
of bug sounds, not-so-distant highway.
Geese flying, we name colors
as they sink beyond the static
of lake surface.

Suddenly darker than expected,
sooner than expected,
the conversation changes
to reassurances
about the woods at night.
No there are no bears here, no lions,
definitely not monsters,
not the kind you’re thinking of anyway,
besides, here come the streetlights.
We’ll turn right, I’m sure it’s a shortcut, now left, left again, I had no idea the neighborhood went on and on like this.

We end up outside of it
walking down a busy road
toward the entrance I hope
is just ahead, six-year-old daughter
in my aching arms, heavy head
on my shoulders, asleep but talking.
Currents of speeding cars
pulling us under.

I become the mother I need
to be, hold her tight, whisper
I know just where we are,
we’re having an adventure,
we’re almost home: it’s okay,
it's okay, it's okay.