Mother and Son

Your father and I listen as you tell us that you're torn
between music and writing; notes and letters spin around you,
nudge up against you crying pick me, pick me like the millions
of cats in the storybook we read when you were three.
When you despair, saying you have no musical talent,
not really, I jump in, you do you do, you're the best,
brandishing words like the toy broom I used
to sweep monsters out from under the bed.
I have lost the ability to comfort.
You tell me I know nothing about your music–
I can make no judgments. You're right of course.
I sit in your kitchen, blinking, powerless.
I want to squeeze you back in time through the eye of the needle,
make you small. Then you let me believe I could fix, make better.
Maybe lies even then. But I'd say, if you want to go out you have
to put on your jacket. And you did. I zipped it up, making sure
the metal didn't touch your neck. I pulled on your navy stocking cap,
I made sure your socks weren't too small, your waffles too cold,
your hands too dirty, your hair too greasy.
I placed shields around you, talismans,
warded off the evil eye. I was very busy.
Now I fold my hands across the empty bag of my body.
I want to do for you.
Words my own mother used, generations of women,
standing one behind the other in sagging rows.
I rise, push in my chair, and get in line.