My Mother and I Loiter
on the front steps of
some young professional’s
apartment in Boston.
She smokes
I hold my breath
it is hard for both of us
to breathe.
Her: heavy doses of meds
Me: small doses of meds
meant to make seeing her
less painful, other things
less crushing.
Today it is hot
she tries to blow her cigarette
smoke away from me
she doesn’t know much
about me anymore
but she knows I’ve always
hated the smoke.
She knows
I’ve always hated how we’ve
never been able to connect.
She used to roll
my infant body in a stroller
while she fumbled through
schizophrenia.
I knew nothing
but how to love her
the way babies know
how
the way babies don’t
know that they
are experiencing
pain but that something
is breaking and my mother
is a hurting thing but like a baby
she doesn’t know this
so I sing to her
about my job and how the family is doing
this calms her all the time.
I imagine
she feels no pain if only for a moment
and I can smile as I wonder
if this is how it feels to be a mother
to know the world
and all its evil and to soothe anyway
even when the consoling never comes back
and you’re left empty.
I can’t pretend to know about birthing
but I know how to make up happy stories
for a woman on a front stoop
who can’t believe her daughter
is almost thirty.
Who can’t believe she had a baby once
chanting back every lullabye
meant to make things okay
meant to shield
everything soft
like we are told
only mothers could
I don’t know
how to be a mother
but somehow
I have learned
to keep
every hard
lesson tucked away
until enough time
has passed
until the world
has aged us both
old enough
to learn.