Did you have some idea
of who you wanted me to be
when you doled out all the
unappreciated criticism painted
with equally unconditional patience?
Or was it a day-by-day call
on how wild you would let me run,
waiting for the rope you’d given
to grow taut in hopes I’d notice
before strangling myself?
How did you find the serenity
to not “take me out,” a privilege,
nay, a right granted to you
for “bringing me into this world”?
Like the sleight of hand
behind every good magic trick,
I think I’d rather not know;
some wonders are simply
not meant to be explained.
I’m just happy to have survived
the trial by fire with only the burns
I earned, now callused and useful.
Happy Mother’s Day.