In my imagination
My mother tells me the story
Of how it began:
my newborn eyes gazing at
her young--sadly experienced--ones
registering
that this warmth who had held me
so close, so long,
was real
near.
i cried
she cried
and all our tears could not wash
the love or the uncertainty
from us.
In my imagination
She sits by my bed each night
And tells me the story
And we grow to understand
One another
And the moment
Is enough
To fill the subsequent
Lost years.
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