I now pronounce you your own. Give you back
your names, put down those titles: Mother, Father,
Wife, Husband. I pronounce you whole. Better
apart, but still better for once having found each
other. I pronounce you human. Both the stove
and the hand that touches it, if only to learn
what burns. I pronounce your every scar
well earned, roads on a worn map you used
to find your way home. I pronounce you home
and road. Minute and hour hand, together
briefly, moving forward. I pronounce you
the golden leaf and its inevitable
fall. I pronounce you deserving of space
to change, the hydrangea moved
from its pot into earth, roots stretched out
like an unclenched fist. I pronounce you worthy
of looking back with gentle eyes. Both the one
who held me in the backseat, my bleeding
knee in your lap, and the steady hand that drove
us to the hospital. I pronounce you both free
and forever bound, your four children stitched
between you like the binding of a book sewed
together by hand. I pronounce you the pages
and the cover that encases them.
Both the story I know
and the one you wrote without me.
