Once there were two plush monkeys, plump and small,
one was for the girl, one for the boy.
One day the boy could not find his monkey,
and I could not find it either. Years after,
after the girl, a woman now, had died,
I found both of the monkeys with her things.
No doubt it had been an angry whim,
quickly passed, but she had kept them both,
all those years, perhaps as a reminder
of some truth she did not want forgotten.
She knew her death was coming and that I
would have to be the one to sort her things.
This is what a mother does. We have
no place for guilt, except as a useful tool.
We forgive ourselves our childishness,
how else do we expect to grow? And we
forgive our children theirs. We keep close
their imperfections. We have no place for sin.
I have kept his monkey. I will tell him
that I have it. One day soon I
will tell him. Probably he has forgotten.
It is hard to get things right, like setting
a pot to simmer, not to boil, just simmer.
I don’t want to tell him.
