When she gave birth to you, your mom
lay resting in her bed
and wondered what you would be like
three decades up ahead.
She thought you might decide to be
a monk withdrawn from life.
You'd ponder all the mysteries
alone and far from strife.
Perhaps you'd be a bon vivant —
pursuing mirth and wine.
You'd burn through life like through a wick,
but that would be just fine.
Or you'd select a scholar's path —
a thinker deep in thought.
You'd spend your days reflecting on
what matters and does not.
Your mother would not mind if you
became the artsy type,
creating paintings, songs or yarns
and puffing on a pipe.
But then you might elect to be
political perchance.
You'd run for office and proclaim
this or another stance.
A man of science in a lab
would not have put her off.
A Nobel prize is not a goal
at which good mothers scoff.
What she could not have guessed back then
but what has since come true
is that it took you thirty years
to just emerge as... you.