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  • Kellyanne Fitzgerald

stepping stones

A poem by Kellyanne Fitzgerald



stepping stones


I walk my brother’s house, and hold his baby

and think about what I want from my life.

The sunlight dapples the floor, the fan above

whirs patiently, like it has all the time in the world.

The baby is quiet while I am holding him

small and snug in his own new beginnings.

He likes to look outside at the birds landing on the fence

but cries if you put him down. So I shift hips

and think of the time poured into babies, mostly woman-time

endless minutes spent watching them scoot and play

the realized and unrealized dreams that their lives parallel.


Outside the sun is getting hotter, so we stay in.

He gurgles at me, blue eyes and strawberry cheeks.

The butterfly wings that rule the rest of the world

pass us by. Peaches ripen on the counter

despite themselves, unaware as frogs in boiling

water. I wonder how my friends have found their footing

in adulthood, now that nobody keeps in touch.

I wonder if my unsteady relationship with food could survive

pregnancy, and where a kid could live in twenty years,

when Florida is underwater.


And I wonder if all my classmates feel their lives branching

one path towards tradition, one towards freedom,

and the middle road of manicured fists clutching diaper bags

Zoom meetings and peanut butter sandwiches to take to Disneyworld,

because the food there is getting outrageously expensive.

At age ten, I vowed to never feed my kids peanut butter

sandwiches at Disneyworld. My mother said “I’ll check back

in twenty years,” and we slammed our car doors.

I look into the mirror at my face, which is my mother’s face.

I wonder if I ever had free will to become something else.


The sun moves across the floor, kaleidoscopic,

and the baby is warm in my arms, quiet as a dream.

We watch the birds outside as the air moves from scorching

to dusklight, and crickets call, soothing as the oncoming evening.

My life passes easy - so long as I hold this baby.





Kellyanne Fitzgerald is a writer and artist based in Madison, Wisconsin. In her free time she enjoys language learning, fiber arts, and folk art illustration.




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