Dear Oliva, And Whomever Else it May Concern
When you get older you come to realize
that whether you mom kisses or bites
has no bearing on the simple fact that she’s your mother.
That you can kill her off, bury her deep inside of you
and when Christmas comes
you’ll still wish for her
like a kid, a few years too old, still writing to Santa Claus.
You’ll feel the love of family
flicker like a faulty bulb
enough to know it’s real,
never anything more.
Like a lightbulb you can hear hum
but never see glow.
And someday your little cousin will cry.
For a man who died before she could say his name right.
And whisper in your ear
that she forgot what he looked like before he got sick.
You’ll show her photographs.
Your grandfather, young and laughing.
Sitting next to his brother and father
just as you sit next to her.
You’ll speak softly of men she’ll never meet
and she’ll listen like she knows the words.
And you’ll look at her and all the other small ones
With chocolate covered faces
and dress shoes two sizes too big
And you’ll love them.
With the same flickering love that was once extended to you.
And you’ll hope.
And you’ll pray.
To any being who would listen or hear
that they can feel it.
And that they know you tried to keep the light from dying.
And they’ll look at their moms.
And they’ll know.
And they’ll grow up.
And they’ll do it too.
