the mother

she tells me about
her son,
born with one hand.
how he learned to tie
his shoes, to dress himself,
to bounce a ball,
how he never felt
the loss,
the empty space.
she tells me
how he learned to drive,
how he cooks
and
the job he has
after college.
she tells me how pretty
and smart
his girlfriend is.
but it comes back to
the hand.
there is something
in her voice,
her eyes,
that says more
than she can ever say
with words.
you understand,
and let it go.