enjambed title poem |
especially after you already said goodbye once before. to hug her and kiss her on her wrinkling cheek, before watching her slip into her car to leave, is enough for any son to want to be six again: to put on her pearls and your father’s tie for dress up games with your younger brother; to build a fort from glued-together cardboard you found in your attic, or swing full force on a ball at your first little league game, (and barely tap it enough to leave the tea); to rollerblade over to your best friend’s house at 7 a.m. to start the day young and play until the lights in the street go down, signaling the time for boat rides on the neighborhood’s crystal cool lake; and then by bed time, to lie beneath your sheets and gaze into your mother’s smiling face reaching in to kiss your cheek goodnight, to know even in your young, unblemished heart that no matter how tough life could ever get, you’d have her near by to help you through it. it’s difficult to see your mother go, after you already left for college and are living on your own. to see her drive away and think that she’s thinking her life is coming to a close, to wave goodbye and walk back to your room. it’s difficult to see your mother go. |