I remember being such a fool that I told a grieving mother
“I remember how you used to make me cheesy hotdogs.”
What I meant to say was
“Your son had to have known he was loved.
Your home was all laughter and adventure
and afternoon light
and those hotdogs that were so disgusting
but I loved them
so you made them anyway.
I was only your part-time child
until my mother came to get me.
But I knew I was loved.
He must have known.
He still knows.
You miss him,
I’m sorry,
but I remember your love.
He does, too.
We’re grateful.”