When I was five and our parents divorced I never cared to know why and

You might think that was really bad

When I was six and our mother left us at our father’s door in his rooming house because we were cramping her style

You might think that was really bad

 

But none of that felt really bad – then

And now

All of it was

Really really good

 

Because my mother hated school

And never cared if we went

Because my mother wanted to buy and buy and accumulate cheap trashy expensive things

And I wanted to learn and learn and clutter my space with books and art

Because my mother loved to party and didn’t — or couldn’t? — read

And I loved to read and didn’t party

Because my father and I read the news every day

and talked politics together at the breakfast table

And my grandmother collected books and smiled as we read them and bought more

 

I wish I could write my mother’s true story for her

but all she left me is regret and imagination

and one sure truth:

If we had not cramped our mother’s style

I would not be telling this story

I would not be writing this poem

I would not be me