I’ll be old. Maybe it’ll take until
fifty to find her. Your mother.
Her subtle rhythm will be present
in her laugh, her sleep, the stare
I’ll catch.
Her hair will be loose, easy,
like her step or sigh. Her whole
person will be centered, moving
unanimously like a string section
sawing across thin, stained wood
in unison.
Her age I can’t picture.
Nineteen or forty-five—it
won’t matter, a secular spring
pushing her heels with each step.
She’ll pack my old pictures: ex-
girlfriends who’ve been mothers
for decades.
When she’ll tell me the news
you’re coming, I’ll smile, putting
more lines in my face. Not lines
of age, but relaxation,
as if the face folds in on itself
in rest because one trek is over
and there’s three quarters of a year
until the next thing happens