*
*
Before he lost his license,
we traveled.
In Mexico, he braved insane traffic,
maneuvered a Ford Fiesta
through bullying buses.
Before he lost his profession,
he saw clients,
put out brochures
in three counties.
Before he lost his skill,
he could fix anything
with a motor.
Before he lost his agility,
he was a fourth-degree black belt.
Before he lost his past,
he sent out dozens
of holiday cards.
Before he lost his bearings,
he led the way.
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.
Tangled Magic 