The first day of school, the small
clean shoes. A trail of glitter from the new
backpack. The pieces of us we cannot hold
onto. My mother texts, remember
when you were this age? Waist-high,
wide-eyed. Look at them go, and now my last
baby is a kindergarten name tag. Do not miss me,
I am with you. Somewhere in a long, polished hall
stop and think of me. As the years go on
and on. Open your lunchbox, I have made you
a tuna sandwich, the way you like. The crusts cut off.