#22

The Son’s Grasp of Time

My mother turns 17. I show up
with a KISS cake from Dairy
Queen. The woman at the counter
looked so confused when I ordered
one. But, they had an old design template
in the back. Mom, Janet Lou, doesn’t
want the cake. She wants her
boyfriend and escape. KISS
was never that big for her anyway.
I think I scared her with
the time travel. Gene Simmons,
you aren’t helping.

My mother is turning 35
and I show up again. I prepare
a cake with my accomplishments
listed. I want her to know that
she will be proud of her 1-year-old son.
She is not scared, now, but my father
is angrier than I imagined. Still
young and strong, and I am so proud
that they have each other. As he suggests,
I don’t let the door hit my ass
on the way out. I thought this
time would be smoother, like
the chocolate icing around, “I graduate
high school with honors!” Time
is the worst thing to get messed up in.

On almost a lark I visit the hospital
in March of 1956. There in the lobby
I pause, confused. I decide that I do
not need a glimpse. Time is its own,
and these moments are not mine.
But founts of love that I have bathed
in. This is not my place, though
mine may still be warm if I return.
Before I see someone I vaguely know
I move to the girl at the desk.
She doesn’t like my city accent and long
hair. I ask her to leave the cake,
as simply as I’ve made it, for the little
girl born Janet Waldrop. She shrugs
and yields, thankfully, to my plea.
I am careful in my handing over
so that the icing, “I always loved you”,
doesn’t smudge or slide. Somewhere,
in another place, I have dropped the slice
of icing. I believe that I hear thunder
and see mighty lightning outside. I find
the idea of riding it away appeals to me.
I cannot remember how I arrived here,
or any root of my idea. Time defeats
me, my greatest thoughts, and I smile
still.