The Mothers Talk

I wait until after breakfast,

when she’s had her coffee,

opened the doors,

and begun to swirl the paint.

Mom, Jorge and me,

we want to hike up Bolinas Ridge.

Tomorrow?

She stops swirling, smiles at me.

Can I go, Mom? By ourselves?

It’s an overnight.

You just have to take us up the road

near Olema, and then we take

McCurdy Trail to Bolinas Ridge.

There’s a campground

near the top. (There isn’t.)

Jorge has a phone,

so we can tell you how we are. (He does.)

She pulls out her phone,

calls Jorge’s mom.

In the corner of the nursery,

near the door,

a gray mouse makes a break for it.

It scurries across the floor,

pauses by the doorframe,

and lifts its front paws in the air,

then down into a crack

in the old wooden deck.

I hear chatter on either

side of the call,

the sounds of mothers talking

in secret languages,

a thousand words that lead to

Yes