is you can say anything
and they'll believe you. Your credibility

is at an all-time high.
Mom lies on the sofa in memory care,

and I tell her the story of her life.
With some edits.

I dwell on the good bits.
Dim sum on Sundays at Big Wong's.

Samurai movies at the Biograph,
back when it was still the Biograph.

Taking Otie to the arboretum
to gambol in the grass

and flower-sniff extravagantly.
First-thing-in-the-morning hot rolls

from the Portugese bakery in P-town.
Waking to a man singing

O Sole Mio in a courtyard in Venice.
Leaping peak to peak,

like Hermes with his wingèd feet,
I never touch the ground, or speak

of that which broke her,
or how she handed brokenness down,

like a sparrow in a shroud.
When I finish the tale, she clasps

my hands, eyes bright:
I wish we could do it all again.

I pause, then nod. Me, too, Mom.