I will tell you later that it happened

by default, that I was in no way prepared

to send you off alone. I will say that

I cried as the exhaust

cloud dissipated, and long after. That

you were probably through with circle

time before I stepped back from

my ledge and drove myself to the safety

of the coffee shop where public eyes,

anonymous, welcomed me with shots

of espresso. Someday I will share

with you the feeling of nostalgia

for a summer that ended before I was

ready to hand you over to teachers

and their aides from whom I only expected

the worst. I will explain maternal

instinct and fear as if you do not

hold your own eidetic images of such concepts

in the space of your mind, a place

so complex none of us can begin

to translate it into manageable

cause/effect behavior. I might paint

a visual, you with the brand new

backpack and tennis shoes, walking

across the street, up the steps, a journey

to first grade. I will show you the picture

I took that morning, your brother guiding

you, his charge, though both of you

will have outgrown the small space

of that photograph’s frame, and neither

of you will recognize those two little boys.

I may even speak

of pride and the nature of memory. How

it colors everything it touches

with a different light, what a camera cannot

catch. I suspect you will look at me

and say you knew that already,

that I have told you before.