Regret
nothing. Not those years
when you were a single mother,
bologna casserole, and not enough
money for heat. Or the years before,
the ones spent trying to please a man
who couldn’t be happy, no matter how
hard you tried to replicate his mother’s recipes—
the marinara wasn’t sweet enough, the lasagna
didn’t have enough layers.
Don’t regret the years that went up
in smoke, the glamour of the lit match,
the first drag, the curls that rose
to decorate the ceiling. Or the years
as a waitress, the customers who stiffed
you on tips, which were quarters
and nickels back then, every thin dime
counting. Instead, remember your friends,
those hours on the telephone, the artery
of the long black cord, a river of voice.
Don’t tell me that broken places
make you stronger, and I won’t mention
silver linings. Sometimes, there are scars.
Sometimes, it rains. Stop looking for the friends
who aren’t here, the ones whose faces you sometimes
glimpse in a crowd. The past is the grass growing under
our feet; the dirt beneath it, what feeds it. Remember
that nothing is ever lost.
