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.