“and piles them up in the driveway: femur, rib, jawbone with a few/flat teeth attached, dozens of thin arced parts” – Jennifer Richter, “My Daughter Brings Home Bones”
My daughter brings home ballet programs, art projects made of feathers and construction paper and glue. My daughter brings home pine cones from the park, and dying maple leaves. My daughter brings home the notion of fair play, the excited chatter of her first best friend. My daughter brings home the accolades of her professors in History, and in German, at her college. My daughter brings home a boyfriend who seeks refuge in the Pacific Northwest from a too-dry climate in California. My daughter brings home complicated knitting projects and lace shawls in progress. My daughter brings home stone artifacts from archaeological digs and flint-knapped obsidian. My daughter brings back photos of a castle, of a courtyard in Trinity College, of a lonely seacoast, from her visit to Ireland. Most of all, my daughter brings home stories. As she tells me the stories of her life, of songs sung at pubs, of sweaters knitted on buses, and of small day-to-day encounters in her job, I imagine all the stories being woven together between us that make up the fabric of our lives.