Keepsakes

I gave you my breasts of milk,
a dress of silk, and spooned the
strained carrots you spit back at me.

You borrowed my paper and pens
to print your name, Diana Lynn,
and the “Dear Mom” verses I pressed

in my keepsakes like the veil that crowned
your head on First Communion Day.
You peddled the bike of blue

your dad assembled for you on
your fifth birthday. I sewed the
Girl Scout patches around your vests

of brown and green, soothed the scratches
on your knee, and learned you’d earned the
first place ribbon in the Spelling Bee.

You sailed on the Rhein, the Seine, stroked
the donkey’s mane on Terceira, and rode a
camel on the sands

of Tangier. You tapped the clarinet
in the school band and extended
your hand in scholarly clubs.

You inched your way near the highest
tier of your class honor roll; your name
dazzled like glitter in gold.

Now I give you a cap and gown,
you’ll journey to a college town,
and tears of pride I’ll press in my keepsakes.

Contributor: Rose Gleisberg