1986
That was the year my mom got a teaching job at my school.
Her classroom, a trailer on the tarmac.
After school, her co-teacher sat on the steps and smoked.
My mom hadn’t smoked since college
but my dad was getting married in November
and sometimes, my mom said, she needed a drag —
to watch the smoke rings waft across the playground.
A few times, I came to her trailer in the middle
of the school day. The pure thrill of it, to have my mom
near me. Once, I had a splinter. If there was one thing
my mom could do, it was remove a splinter.
I sat at a small desk as she held my finger down,
gently peeling away the skin with a sewing needle.
I don’t remember my mom mothering me.
Most of the time, I took care of myself. But I melted
to her touch, blue October light twisting through the window,
my mother removing one soft layer of skin at a time
until she found the sliver of wood that had lodged itself inside.