EVERY BALIKBAYAN IS IN ONE WAY OR ANOTHER FOR MY MOTHER
Forgiveness is laborious that way. A never-ending line of empty boxes so long, we forget—I pin my awards to the fat bellies of stars. She pulls stitches from the spaces between. The thread is black, the point sharp. The odds are astronomical we’d end up, here, on the other side of our pale blue dot like this, at opposing ends of the cheap azure rug bought on clearance at Ross last week to cover up the fireplace burns of escaped embers. It’s been at least a year. Finally dry enough to start, we throw in the kindling. Where there is smoke, I finally say I love you.