someday i'll sit you down -
you
who are still just half a thought somewhere inside my person -
and i'll tell you.
i'll tell you the day my parents stopped loving each other
(i was three, but
i remember)
and the way they never stopped loving me.
i'll tell you the things that i've milestoned in ages -
that when i was 15 i made a terrible mistake
with a terrible boy
and i'll warn you that it happens to everyone once
and you won't believe me till it happens to you ( my poor beautiful babies)
that, 17 and filled with abandon,
i punched a second stud into the pop-pop cartilage of my right ear
(it was ten minutes of biting my lip and
trying not to make a noise
because the only permission i had was from myself)
that, 16 and starry-eyed,
i met the boy who may very well be your father.
i'll tell you that
you'll be surprised at who you end up with
because chances are he was right under your nose the whole time.
and i know that you may not even exist for me to sit down with -
that i may choose cups of coffee and pages filled with words
over ever being your mother
but if you do happen,
and the shadows in my mind become little faces at my feet,
and my doorways become clogged with
light-up pink sandals and
untied muddy gym shoes,
then that's what i'll tell you.
that's what you'll know.
so until then, my little ones
(unless,
that is,
you remain just half-written stories.)