I haven’t said it since, but I’ve thought about it, and I’ve wondered why my mother doesn’t. A couple of years ago, I found a poem by Robert Hershon called “Sentimental Moment or Why Did the Baguette Cross the Road?” that supplied words for the blank spaces I try to understand in our conversations:[18]
Don’t fill up on bread[19]
I say absent-mindedly
The servings here are huge[20]
My son, whose hair may be
receding[21] a bit, says
Did you really just
say that to me?
What he doesn’t know
is that when we’re walking
together, when we get
to the curb[22]
I sometimes start to reach
for his hand
It’s a humble poem, small in scope, not the stuff of epic heartbreak, yet poignant.[23] After copying it down in my quotation journal, my wrist smudging the pencil into a gray haze as I wrote, I opened an e-mail I had begun to my mother, and added a postscript: “This poem made me think of you,” with the 13 lines cut and pasted below.[24] My mother doesn’t read poetry—or at least, she doesn’t tell me that she reads poetry—and I felt nervous clicking, “Send.”
She never mentioned the poem. But the next time I went home for vacation, I noticed something new in the kitchen. Not on her quotation wall, but across the room, fixed to an antique magnetic board: Robert Hershon’s poem, printed on a scrap of white paper in the old-fashioned font of a typewriter.[25] The board hung above the radiator, where we drape wet rags and mittens dripping with snow, in the warmest spot in the kitchen.[26] The poem still hangs there. Neither my mother nor I have ever spoken about it.
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