The day I married your father
I took you with me to the makeup artist,
remember? You and your friend
both sat in the back seat and you wore
the sunglasses I bought you the whole day,
though the sky was the same dull white
as week-old snow, taking them off only when
your dad insisted since, miracle of miracles
and despite your braces, you’d agreed to sing
the “minutes” song from Rent, the one it took
five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred
renderings of at least, for you to ever tire of.
That year you measured in weddings,
your father’s, your mother’s.
I measured the weeks
with you in Tuesdays, Thursdays,
alternate weekends, Chipotle, pad thai, trips
to the mall for endless Pink (never the color)
and Forever21 until you were
too old. What was I thinking,
all that makeup? Thank you
for saying I looked pretty, that day.
It must have been the sunglasses.