Today is my son’s fortieth birthday. Yes, 4O. Every year at the moment of his entrance into the world, I call or text him. I may sing a silly “Happy Birthday” song to him, or I may just wish him happiness on his special day. Or, as today, I might sing few bars of “Bye Bye, Blackbird” to him.

When he was still a baby, I would sing to him often when rocking with him on my lap. “A Froggy Went A-Courting” was one we enjoyed, but “Blackbird” was our favorite. My baby would gurgle and laugh as I bounced him to the rhythm.

Pack up all my care and woe
Here I go singing low
Bye, bye blackbird

Where somebody waits for me
Sugar’s sweet, so is she
Bye, bye blackbird

No one here can love or understand me
Oh what hard luck stories they all hand me

Now make my bed and light the light
I’ll arrive late tonight
Blackbird, bye, bye.

Regardless of the meaning behind the lyrics, my baby and I always shared it as a happy song, one in which the protagonist, a “black bird” was going toward better, happier times.

Each year as I celebrate my son’s birth, I return to these sweet moments in the early years when the two of us seemed, in Helen Reddy’s words, united “against the world.” Today, this celebration of his forty years is also a call out for hope, for strength to get past the many ills that plague us–terrible virus, the chaos in our government, the rise of militant groups who plot violent acts against others. So much to despair about.

But today, I choose hope that all of us may “pack up our cares and woes” and arrive in a safe place as soon as possible. It’s been a hard ride.

Fertility *

Burr Oak Street in rural Michigan
glows with brown, gold,
yellow, orange leaves.

October 9. Pains begin at 12:05 a. m.
A cool night, bracing itself
for colder nights to come.

I know the signs, count the seconds
between each throb, electric
belly currents.

I climb steps to the first floor slowly,
one at a time, brace myself,
grip iron railings,
for each wave is

like a heartbeat
like a tribal drum
like an urgent call.

Outside, wet wind blows leaves
against the house. It’s
almost Halloween.

 ***
At three years old I am a ghost
in white sheet, eyes peering
through ragged slits.

I moan, and my girl voice rises
through an Indiana fall night,
joins wet winds

bearing down on leaves, mostly yellow,
some orange, a damp carpet
on lawns, sidewalks.

This will be a long night of monitors
ice chips, moans, counted breaths,
dampened forehead patted dry.

At 8:11 a. m. he will emerge,
his cries like a chicken clucking.

I will take him home. By then,
trees will stand barren of leaves.

*From Portals: A Memoir in Verse, Kelsay Books 2019