cry for me

I wonder if my parents cried for me, as I do for my child.

Did they wonder at the mysteries I’d discover in their stead? Or just where the bread came from?

Did they worry about the historical consequences that shaped their world? Or just who had leverage over us?

Did they cower before my potential? Or just wish they could forget how hard it all was?

Did they understand the irony? Or just take for granted children know nothing until they know love?

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I wrote this July 18, 2019. I have a yearly auto-bump on a notebook in my personal discourse, so this just came up.

I don’t find poetry personally engaging, but sometimes thoughts form like this, so I jot them down.