your mother, when she was in college,
used to say "i don't know" a lot,
even though she knew a lot, and she had
the most charming smile
every time i told her, "start knowing."
she once worked as an usher
at a theatre where the
actors and actresses would attend,
she wore all black on those nights
and struck fear into the famous.
she was the most beautiful woman
in madison square park when
she'd meet me for lunch there,
all the men looked at her
when they walked by, and i
held her hand when we walked away.
she stood with the authority of a diplomat
and the authenticity of a farmer
next to me in washington square,
with a sweet gaze,
she made me feel proud
just to sit under streetlights with her.
your mother was once here,
in this young man's shoebox,
she came here the first night we met
for excitement, and kept coming back,
even if only for a space to read
books for those silly college classes.
she once kissed me on the cheek and
looked at me like she loved me, and
i think she did, your mother loved me
half as much as she loves you,
and it fulfilled my heart.
that was before life started telling her
all those things she didn't know,
that my apartment was just a pit stop,
only a brief checkpoint in her youth,
a small learning experience before she became
who she is to you:
one of the only people
in the story of your life
who will never cease to love you.