Her Handwriting on the Tag

I was maybe nine. The tag was small and red,

my name in blue felt tip, the letters made

the way she always made them — how the d

looped back, the r curved like a blade

softened at the edge. I stood there

holding it. Put it back. I'd known

that r for years. It was hers. The care

in it was hers. I'd always known

her writing the way you know a voice —

without deciding to.

I smoothed the tag. Made no noise.

Went back to bed.

I didn't say anything at Christmas.

I watched her watch me open it.

Her face doing the face she saved

for things she'd made go right.

I did the face too.

We were both performing.

I wonder now which of us

knew about the other.