Do you have any idea how beautiful
your pain is?
Your pain remembers his birth.
It remembers his eyes
meeting yours
as he nurses at your breast,
and then breaks into a smile
as he holds your nipple
in his still unbroken gums.
I love you, Mom.
Your pain sees him
on the red carpet
in his yellow, knit jammies,
press up on his hands and knees
for the first time
and rock back and forth
a look of shock
then smiling exaltedly
in triumph.
Mom, look!
I am the first baby
in the world
ever!
to do this!
I am king of my hands
and my knees!
Your pain sees him in his highchair
making faces to make you laugh.
Eleven months old,
scrunching up his eyes and nose
pursing his lips into a monstrous pose
and snorting,
only to make his mother and father,
his sister and his brothers
laugh out loud.
A comedian at eleven months,
something he only grew into,
not out of.
Your pain remembers.
Your pain straightens its back at his call,
“Lucy, I’m home!”
To turn from your gardening to see him
down the street,
rounding the corner on his bike,
hands in the air,
face full of freckles,
golden hair,
“I love you, Mom!”
It is your pain that remembers that day
in the kitchen,
that time you went to give him a hug,
and he objected, in his new, teen-aged voice,
“Excuse me, this is my personal space.”
Ahhh. A manling now,
pushing you back
with newly discovered
constitutional rights.
Your pain sees him dressed and handsome for prom
at the side of a gorgeous brunette,
one moment sophisticated in tux and gown,
the next she laughing uncontrollably at his quip
and he, trying not to crack up at his own hilarity,
his Adams Apple about to burst
raucous laughter through his
firmly pressed jaw.
It’s there,
in the photo.
Your pain sees it.
Your pain sees his graduation.
It sees his going off to college,
then his struggle to be accepted
into the university,
and his triumph,
despite his dyslexia.
His uncle’s dyslexia.
The uncle who’s voice he shared,
whose drollness he shared,
whose insular nature he shared.
Their voice-mail message is even the same,
“Hi, you’ve reached Jim. Leave a message.”
“Hi, you’ve reached Alex. Leave a message.”,
Even though they saw one another only rarely.
Then, his last words to you,
“Thanks, Mom.
I love you.”
Your pain thanks God that
Love was the last word.
And he is dead now.
He died in the crib.
He died in the car.
He died in the war.
He died in a fight.
He died from a bullet.
He died from cancer.
He died from an overdose.
He died from depression.
It doesn’t matter.
It doesn’t matter why or how.
It doesn’t matter who is to blame.
Even your pain cannot bring him back.
But your pain remembers.
