What we're talking about when we talk about writing it down

Because someday you'll be grateful
Because someday, 22 years later
Because Mother's Day
Because Zoom
Because your mom, Ma, picks up the little chapbook as though it's product placement, and says "what's this?"
Because she forgot she read it
Because "Happy Mother's Day!"
Because it's been sitting there on her bookshelf in her office, my old bedroom, for 22 years, within 6 feet of her every day
Because of all the poems I wrote about all those women who were also like mothers and always would be
Because that part was so important
Because I gave it to her on Mother's Day 22 years ago today
Because what a fucking bizarre weird ass coincidence that there's no way it's a coincidence
Because my 13 year old wanted her to keep reading
Because TCF said my writing is just the same now as it was then
Because I'd forgotten
Because I'd forgotten
Because I'd forgotten
Because I'd forgotten
Because I probably couldn't cry about it then
Because even if I didn't like myself then, I really like myself then now
Because even though I would have liked myself now, then, I'm not sure it would have been for the right reasons
Because someday in 22 years I will read that line and love myself again
Because I'm so glad I wrote the truth
Because I'm so glad I wrote it down
Because I really wrote it for her
Because I really wrote it for me
Because hers was the best one even though it was hidden between ones with more sparkle
Because I had no other way to tell her
Because it feels like yesterday
Because it feels like years
Because part of my soul has been waiting patiently for me to find that little book again
Because it made me remember
Because you forgot something
Because I knew someday we'd all read it together and it would be much more than okay
Because I vowed from then on to write it down because you never know when there might be another pandemic, you never know what the future holds, why all the things you're hoarding aren't satisfying you
Because most everything you need is right here in your stack of spiral notebooks where you come walking through your childhood front door looking for the lost piece, wave goodbye to your mother and go out the backdoor empty handed
Because on second thought you go back inside for one last hug for the road