Mother pockets the wind in her glove. Mother recites erev shabbat & birkat hamazon. Mother picks Gushers at Target. Mother picks sweater stitches from my mouth. Mother sighs. Mother coughs. Mother is a statue, but tender. Mother is a birthday present, wrapped in newspaper—the opinion section, not the news. Mother rises the sun with her eyes. Mother reminds me to love everything, even my shame & my fear & my longing, & my longing. Mother lets go of my hand, says it won’t hurt—