Love You, Mom
The photo she would have picked herself, and the line you have never quite said out loud.
The photo she would have picked herself, and the line you have never quite said out loud.
Everything in this house started as something she planted.
Last December there were two of you. This December there are three.
For the argument about the star that you let him win every year.
You were never going to ask for anything else.
For the dad who says he does not need anything, every single year.
For the tree at their house, the one nobody is allowed to touch.
For the two of them, exactly where they want to be.
For her, because home stopped being a place a while ago.
The address changes. The line does not.
The first tree, and the first address worth putting on something.
The book was the same every time and she never once sounded bored.
The one stocking that makes the whole mantel look deliberate.
Six hundred miles, and she still knows.
For the Christmas that has an empty chair in it.
Dad never left. He just got quieter about it.
For the woman who never asked for credit.
You did not grow here. You still ended up home.
You did not rescue him. He picked you and moved in.
The paper lasted four seconds. He was in all of it.
They do not teach good boy in any language. He knew it anyway.
The first tree, the first address, and one line underneath that says both.
Same tradition, new memories, same two people.
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