What Kind of Woman

by Kate Baer

Back to School Shopping Because I love you, I buy the Superman backpack, three tubs of glue. I hold up the different folders and let you decide: tigers or LEGOs, stripes or battleships. I do not tell you what I am becoming. I do not tell you I am afraid. Last night they played the screams of some people dying. Last night they showed their guns in the air. How does a mother hold her terrors? How does a school become a haunted place? In the morning, I take your picture in front of the sign, gaps in your teeth. I do not say a life without you is not worth living. I do not say I’ve memorized every inch of your frame. Instead, I wave at your hand waving. Instead, I say a quick goodbye.