Circuitry {a poem}

The arsenal of poems about mothers
doesn't need another mother poem,
a fact that apparently doesn't stop me
from sitting down to write just that.
A son who forgot it was mother's day
later felt guilty and wished me happy
mother's day multiple times, including
hugs. I accepted the hugs and rejected
the guilt. God knows I don't want to be
that mother who saddles her kids
with heavy packs to heave up whatever
steep mountainsides await them.
No, I'd much rather leave them
with something lighter to carry,
something intangible as love that
has its own shape, its own contours,
its own kind of substance, part manual
and maybe a mantra or two and most
of all, comfort, knowing that I'm here
no matter where here is, no matter
where they are, no matter what,
no matter what, those three words
the only ones they need to remember
when they get growing and failing
mixed up, which we all do sometimes.
No guilt, though, please. For all
my Jewish mother genes – the food,
the checking in, the worry I practice
surrendering that's generations old –
at guilt I draw the line, or try, in favor
of some other enterprise entirely,
like rerouting the ancient wiring,
knowing that some connections
are made brighter when others are cut.