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The Mothers of Sons Strangers who smile at you women mothers who know tell me there will come a time when you won’t call unless your wife reminds you “maybe Grandma would want to know the soccer score.” She, pretty, prodding sweetly, duty-bound, uninvested, trying not to nag, shares a fleeting thought between bites of a distant family dinner God, will I really be grateful for the report of scores? I just want to hear your voice, my son, the man I birthed and nursed and as recently as Sunday’s supper crumbs held like no one else you are not even two years old yet ubiquitous fear already carves its deep, early place in my new mother’s heart a stain on a patchwork quilt of present tense I cannot presoak and remove sometimes, as you sleep nearby curled small in your crib I find myself preparing for a time when infrequent phone calls are enough, knowing even then I’ll be a momma praying mothers can be wrong |
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