You could tell that I was on the verge of tears
as you and your husband loaded the skeletal parts
of the knocked-down, maple bunk bed
into the back of your pick-up truck. You said,
It’s in really good shape and I said,
It was a good bed. That’s when you heard
my voice crack, and mother-to-mother,
you knew how I felt. You said,
I know I will feel it when I take the crib down.
I said yes, it’s hard to do these things, and I turned
so you wouldn’t see my eyes moisten. We had already
exchanged knowing glances, you and I, when your husband
was snotty to you about the large container of dirt
he had not taken out of the truck before coming over.
Your concern for the bed was making him angry
and I wondered how it was for you—being married
to someone with such a short fuse. You and I
shared the same first name, but more than that,
we connected over the sacredness of a child’s bed;
a place where night after night, the future dreams itself.
I left the four of you and turned into my new house.
Minutes later, I heard doors slam, little girls cry.
I didn’t want to look. I only wanted the bed
to go forth so we could all, at last, be happy.