At the Supermarket
They told me you were coming in April
nonchalantly at the dinner table. I
dipped my bread in my soup, and
suddenly, you existed.
I never fathomed you because I don't
see your mother often, and when I
do see her, she wears baggy blouses
over her stomach. They're often red.
Your hair will probably be red at
first, but then it will ripen to blond.
That's what happened to all of us, and
you have our blood.
I won't know your name, and you'll
never know mine. I don't want us
to know each other, or at least not
when April comes.
It'll be a surprise or a coincidence
(you'll learn these words later).
We'll both see each other some
place and wonder.
Just imagine: you're standing in
line at the supermarket when
you're eighteen, buying cigarettes
and cinnamon lip balm.
I'm standing in the line to your
left, and we glance by chance at
each other, and we notice our eyes
were cut from the same sapphire.
This'll marinate in our brains for
an hour or so, then it'll dissolve
and reappear a couple more times
before I'm beneath dirt.
I wish I could write your history
for you, but I would leave too much
out--who your father is, where
you came to be, those types of facts.
And historians should be objective.
I admit I would conceal information
as well--you have two sisters, and
you weren't supposed to be born.
You weren't supposed to be, but
suddenly, you existed. I hope your
mother's blood succumbs to
your new mother's touch.
I hope you learn to read and love
it and are tolerant of everyone.
I hope you have nice manners and
enjoy sweet tea.
I hope that if you see me at that
supermarket (I won't judge you for
buying cigarettes), you look at me,
truly look at me.
