impossible

I am the mother. You can tell
by the way both hands sit on my hips,
universal mom pose,
surveying the horizon line
of the park where beefy childless men
whack a hockey puck back and forth
on rollerblades, on a dare.
Don’t you think, someone,
somewhere, once said aloud:
Dude. You wanna play ice hockey
but on rollerblades?
This happened.
And now, I stand, watching —
my eyes follow the puck
to the goalie, padded up
to a comic degree, for protection.
Meanwhile, my girls circle
weaving on bikes, new-to-them,
but hand-me-down, nothing new.
I am the mother, I recognize
another mother standing in wait
for their life to restart,
for the shoulders to relax,
for the check to arrive,
for the worry to subside,
for the honor she deserves,
for support that has been cut
like a hole in a hammock. Or,
maybe it was never there,
nothing new.