The Eighth Of June

Published in Move Me Poetry

Graduate: (intransitive verb) to pass from one stage of experience, proficiency, or prestige to a usually higher one

Today is that day. What day?
The day my mother died (nearly forty years ago).
Always heavyhearted,
until today.
Here I am in the same hotel I stayed
when she was born. Who is she?
Caitlyn, my firstborn granddaughter.
Today she graduates; a new memory made.
I needed this. Not the dreaded old one. Who am I?
Older, happier, and proud.
Now, I sit looking at the pool
where her father once held her
in a red and white polka dotted bathing suit.
At that perfect age: roly poly legs and chubby arms.
Dimpled baby fingers pointing at me. Unbeknownst to me,
until I heard her belly laugh
when I walked out in an identical suit:
same red and white polka dots.
At that simple age,
it was enough.
We laughed.
In those early years, in the same room,
she chewed my black leather glasses case.
I keep that case (baby teeth marks etched forever)
in my desk drawer.
Last week she turned eighteen. When I watch
her walk across the stage today
and hear her name; it won’t surprise me if I cry.