On November 11th, they told me
to write about my mother coming home.

You must be excited.
Eyes, condescending over glasses.
Tell us all about it.

But they didn’t want to know that
when her car pulled up, I tripped over a stack of clumsy feelings on my way to the front door.

That she dropped her eyes down on her suitcase, forgetting if her soul had made it through customs.
Or if she had packed it at all.

And I didn’t want to alarm her when she saw that my smile was still broken
from all the damage that hadn’t healed since she’d left.

That nothing prepares you for this kind of an ending—where there’s so much love
you don’t know where to put it, and I could only stuff three months’ worth of it
into my pockets and mouth and shoes before I started to cry. I was
still breaking, but it didn’t hurt, because

One second.

I was falling to my knees.

Two seconds…

Baby, I’m home.

I swore my tears were laughing and bleeding all at once—
if you can bleed while you heal—
but her arms pulled me back to her.

Her life. We’re alive.

You could have died…

A part of me did.

I told them then that I couldn’t tell which part I had said.
That there were just words.

But I guess they couldn’t speak my language
because their face did something only hands should do, and shifted their glasses,
a glare striking my eyes from somewhere beyond these lights.

Son, your mother is alive.
You should learn to smile.