the truth of it was that I believe she was what she said she was
hard as it is to believe completely in anything especially in what most of us project to others about our public selves
knowing what I am
what most of us are
knowing what I accept without shame but keep for myself or share when I can with my best and truest lover fortunate to be loved in my daily facts
in my realities rather than in my awkward transcendent imaginings
a surprising present tense . . . I had not expected
But she was or she became someone of quite another order
and, I think
what she said was true
that she loved him or the part of him that was herself encrusted thus
frozen and perfected by her . . .
yes by her misunderstanding her simplification her keeping what was pleasant and heroic and discarding the rest
but yes also by her faith and her ability to see deeply through everything and past everything to what was innocent and pure and beautiful
to those things he could only pretend but could not see or be
even when
he was
and
she was
And so I her son
believed her
when she said she never stopped loving him and was faithful
I felt sorry for her that she had so created a perfect personal world arranged to be so lovely
and worthy
by herself
and had not even secretly
messily wonderfully
ever fallen in love
again