2002-10-13 || 6:31 p.m.

|| the maternal instinct winding its way down 24th street. ||

the last time i saw luke in san francisco we were standing at the bar and he introduced me as his mum. 'matty,' he said hugging me in that sideways way and ruffling my hair, 'this is my mom.' and matty and i shook hands and i didn't quite know what to say after that. i thought about bringing up the stories: i used to cook him dinner some nights. i used to run around the corner to pick up theraflu at the walgreen's when he was sick. i used to set cups steaming with hot tea next to the house word processor (precariously perched atop a tv tray in the living room) as he typed up philosophy papers well into night.

i was house mum.

granny sweaters buttoned at the neck and dishing spaghetti out on mismatched plates. holding faces to ask 'how are you really?'. applying band-aids to careless cuts and running to the top of the stairs when the front door bell rang. standing in the doorway with hand on hip to ask to turn the music down and hanging back late at night to steer the drunk ones in the direction of 3358.

i think i mothered those boys whether they wanted it or not, giving them haircuts i envisioned they would look nice with, straightening ties and picking at sweater lint, standing in the front to the side of various clubs and living rooms getting choked up a bit in that stage-mom way watching them play in their bands.

i was twenty-one.

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