Whose rebellion may have ended with their marriage,
And, then, soon after, a baby boy born in early June.
A young girl turned into a mother for the first time,
For the first time her life divided for her first-born,
Because I mattered to her as she mattered to me.
I was born with the help of a midwife
Whose face I can't recall since that day
But, like many other times, she had done her job well.
I was the only son of the eldest son of the household
Which, obviously, meant and must mean something,
But to this day it's only meant gawking eyes at the legacy of my father.
I heard that colors were thrown around that evening,
Vibrant imagery projects itself onto the back of my mind
And I learn that celebration is an idea and not an experience.
No comments:
Post a Comment