At eighteen, what I wanted most

was for my mother

to come to my graduation.

She didn’t.  She couldn’t.

She wouldn’t be seen,

so sick and thin.

*

At 70, I dream that she comes

to my graduation

held in an echoing cafeteria

with rows of folding metal chairs.

She comes with my father.

She wears a bulky, padded brown coat.

She is always cold, carved out by cancer.

*

My mother and father wait and wait.

But I have forgotten the paper

with my speech.

I’ve left it at home.

The ceremony goes on without me.

It ends.

Parents and students straggle

out of the building.

My time is lost again.