June, 1946 (A Poem for My Mother)

Slick and sweet-smelling, you came into this world, into your mother's arms.

And, she took you with joy, relieved and slightly surprised by the length of your ten tiny fingers topped with those long perfect nails: miniature replicas of the one's she always wanted, but could never quite master.

Your father leaned in, looked down, awe caught up in the back of his throat with the dewy bit of wetness escaping from his eyes.

And even though it will be nine or so months before you say your first words, issue your first declaration of intention, three years before you run away from home for the first time to sit under an oak tree with paper cut outs of food your only source of sustenance, eighteen before you move out for good, thirty some odd before you marry a man, get an education, build a career, have a child of your own (not necessarily in that order or packaged with such neatness) -- you, with that small mewling cry, changed their lives forever.