Poem: Pieces

When we disagree, it’s like two steel trains,
hurling toward each other at hundreds of miles per hour,
bracing for the collision,
preparing for arguments with evidence and persuasion.

And when we do collide, it’s a never ending rush,
of emotion and perfect syntax.

When we fight, it’s all business and momentum.
Never relent, never give up.
She taught me that.
Come to think of it, she’d make a great lawyer.

She’d make a great anything, actually. Especially a writer.
I’m guessing her brain barf is far more snarky than mine,
I’m a novice, she’s a master.

Whenever she’s around, there’s no writer’s block.
We just sit and talk, laugh, expand, explore.
She’s so full of ideas and turns of phrase and transitions.

I’d like to think that I’ve stored away little pieces of her,
her stoicism, her sarcasm,
her super sly winks from across the room.
Her eyes, her laugh, her taste for adventure.

Of course, there’s also her obsessive planning,
the frazzled freak outs, the curtness.
And both our noses can pop.

Growing up, it was always my dad that I turned to,
about boy problems and general frustrations.
Meltdowns and freak outs.

Once, when I was crying after a breakup,
she looked at me, dead-faced and said,
“Why are you crying.”
But she was always strong like that.

At the time, I thought I needed hugs,
and copious amounts of chocolate.
But really, I needed her perspective. I survived.

She passed along to me her love of wine,
And her recipe for the world’s best margaritas,
her stubborness, her determination.
Her my-way-or-the-highway-ness.

During high school, we shared weeknights on the couch,
an hour with Lorelei and Rory and Jess.
And Wheat Thins and cream cheese.

I spent school mornings in the car with my dad,
angstily belting out Taylor Swift.
But those nights were for her.

She knows my favorite foods and my taste in books,
the way my cheeks get pink after a third glass.
She laughs at the fact that I constantly hear music,
as if some ADHD-ridden DJ is spinning in my head.

We share a love for good shoes and toe rings,
and for our perfect little black lab
(who she not-so-secretly loves more than me).

At one point in the Netherlands, we stopped for a bit
and spent an hour sitting crosslegged
on the floor of some Dutch bookstore.
It was one of the simplest joys of our European adventure.

She’s wild, tamed by marriage and domesticity.
But wild nonetheless.
I would hope that she passed that along to me, too.

I love you, Ma.

###