Wednesday, November 12, 2008

where it doesn't matter

and that stuffed toy on her bed is hers, and not her child's.
It's funny, you think.
But it's not.
And you're trying hard to put the pieces together and you figure,
the only thing harder than doing that, is being her.

Mothers, they warn and grandmothers scorn.
It's not a mistake, but it's too hard to explain.

Why go back and point out the I Could Have Done-s when you can't undo it anyway?
It happened, and it's reason enough to smile, I believe.

A friend points out, laughs and mocks.
She says she knows of enough to throw it around.
How do you do that?
And write everything off, reducing it to meaningless facts and cold-hearted jokes?

If you hold your breath long enough, you might turn around to find that it's you.

So you flip through their lives and smile at the pictures.
And hope,
that when you have a gift,
you'll be brave enough to keep it.

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