After All These Years

I had a dream

about your son

months before he was born,

the same one

as our second cousin

whose daughter came too soon,

but I never told you.

What would it accomplish,

bring more confusion

and anxiety

to your already complicated

life?

Once, I journeyed to Alaska

with your white and black cat,

who purred stories

about her own bravery,

and I met him for the first time.

With the quaking of his knees,

the twinge in his toes,

I discovered a sign

that he was special.

But I didn't divulge

the portent weighing

only on those with sight

for these sorts of things.

When we were

children, time flashed before

my eyes,

and I think you saved

my life,

but I never explained

what that means.

If I did, would you stay?

I always

knew you wouldn't be

with me forever, burdened

by the obligation

of helping others,

but for the sake of our

unfinished story,

I hoped it could be longer.

Last winter,

there was a viper

peering through

the snow in your backyard,

and, dreadfully, I knew

that omen.

Yet, you would never admit

how unloved you’d been.

Intuition often

interpreted what you couldn’t.

That night after I asked,

“What do you want to be?”

and you said, “Just happy,”

I sobbed

in your ungrateful daughter's

bedroom.

I will not blame you

for the memories

we never had,

buried

in symbols and visions

of the paths

you didn't chance.

But for just a moment,

I wish you could glimpse

at what I did:

kids pretending

they were a queen and king

because they secretly

wanted to be loved without

losing themselves

along the way,

just one day of selfishness

and extravagance

to soothe the latchkey's

impression burned into

our skin.

Where did the happiness

hide, independence

or being needed?

—never wanted because

that was a stranger's

way.

I remember

when, together,

we may have changed—

a warning in our mother's

eyes, right there

for us to face.

"You can't fix everything."

But we both ignored it,

didn't we?

Funny,

you cried first,

and I heard it

somehow, still in

the womb, then decided

to only weep in secret

because I knew you needed

me to be strong.

How long

have we played this game

of unknowing each other?

At night,

I look for signs in the stars

that you uncovered

the viper,

heavy from hibernation,

pulled her

out of the snow, and

sent her southward

where it was warmer.

But I think you have become

accustomed to the frozen

companion.

I had a dream

about your son last week.

He called my name

and asked me to tell the story

of the girl and boy

who accompanied pirates

across the sea

in search of a lost secret.

You questioned,

"After all these

years, what was it?"

"You,"

I finally admitted.