Mother's Day

Mom, I want you to know
That this girl I'm with,
The one with the four-year-old boy
Reminds me of you.

Call me Oedipal:
I won't gouge out my eyes,
So please,
Don't hang yourself in the bedroom.

Because it's not about that, anyway.
It's about how,

Suposing I skinned my knee,

She would be the one I'd run to,

Like her boy does,

Which reminds me of how I felt
When I was four,

Knowing that you would never turn me away.

And I love you, mom,
And you're a great cook,

But let's be honest:
How hard is it to make a toasted cheese?

I didn't need much more than that,
And a squirt of ketchup on my plate,

And Sesame Street, The Letter People,
Or The Electric Company.

She has just this one,

And it's obvious that she loves him

More than anything,

But you had eight.

Still, I don't think that there's one of us
Who looks back on the situation
And thinks:
"My mom didn't love me."

I remember all those times
At the hospital,
Where I met you,
Anytime I needed you, I went there,

And you came running,
With that look on your face,
The one that was terrified,
Not knowing how bad things were,

And I'd think to myself,
As I lay in the hospital bed,
With a broken arm, split in half,
"Yeah, mom, it really is that bad."

Or that time a year ago,
When I lay in your bed and confessed
How I'd really messed everything up:
"Yeah, mom, it really is that bad."

Mom, I don't know what a daughter needs
From a mother,

And maybe I don't know what a son needs,
Either,

But I need this:
To know you love me,
With my skinned knees,
Or skinned soul.

I know you do, mom,
And for that, I love you, too,

Which is how this girl I'm with,
Reminds me of you.