My mother says "tomorrow is your birthday,
and we haven't bought you a dress and a pair of matching slippers"

I laugh

She's been so busy packing for her next trip
that time snuck up on her, again

I smile and lean my head against her shoulder
I want to tell her she is enough
of a present for me

and that when I am old
and unable to find her
I will observe her here –in this moment–
And I will dream of waking up in her house
under the bugambilias, again
Her caress sweet; her flesh warm

As I understand it, we all become momentary pilgrims
gracious wayfarers recounting our life's blessings, as the body reaches
its end, so whilst at the beginning

all I can manage to tell her is
"sabes que esas cosas no me importan"

she smiles
I think she has always known