To Her Future Kids
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.
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