To John S. - Stephen Piazza
“What am I going to say to your mother?
Just: tell me what’s going on in your head-
you’re a beautiful young woman.
I don’t know what I did wrong. There was no child more loved
than you. If I drove
you to this, God help me.”
I’m not denying you’ve been good to me.
If a man could ever achieve the mystery of motherhood,
it might have been you. I would sit on the stairs waiting for the crunch of gravel in the drive
way when your car came home. I think you thought I was asleep when quiet, hand on my head,
you kissed me, 4, 11, 17, like I was still that beloved
newborn, fresh, wet with your tears, in the soporific arms of a woman.
Merging on the highway, telling me when to let that woman
in her MK Soccer Mom decaled SUV pass me,
when to cut ahead. Directing me to the coffee shop parking lot to get that matcha latte I love.
I’ve never had anything like that with my mother.
When I first cut my hair, one inch short from the head,
she couldn’t look at me- you said I looked good, (though I didn’t) at the Carvel after our drive.
Lately, I’ve been driving
myself: more crazy than anywhere else, a madwoman
in the aqua-coral attic painted for my playhouse. I’m in the car at night just at the top of the hill, and looking ahead,
the road drops off into nothing but the empty dark. This is what’ll happen to me
if I keep living like this. No direction, just an end. Every day I get older and my face looks more like your mother’s.
I was born to do this. It’s not about self love.
I know that you loved
me before I was even born, driving
through the 1 am obsolete red lights, Hurricane Katrina rain beating down on the car, future mother
panting in the back. I’m waiting for him, too. It’s not childbirth, but a woman
will still have to die- that’s the crime.
I’m tired of only living inside my head.
You think I’m headed
for disaster. I’ll do some irreversible damage and one day you’ll get a letter in left hand smeared ink signed “Love,
Stephen,” begging you for cash. Put a little faith in me.
You stood in the gravel and watched till I drove
over the hill and vanished. I always came home. I will still, as good a man
as you are. Or forget about your 18 year long squatter who ate your frozen pizza, that motherfucker.
Either way, I drive. Tell Mom
this too. I’ll keep my head
on. Filial piety isn’t only for women. For you, from me: no matter the pain, Dad, you’ll always have my love.
Stephen Piazza is a sophomore English student from Mount Kisco. His writing has previously been featured in ARCH magazine (Fall 2024) and performed at Fresh Acts! (2025). One of ARCH’s Spring 2025 interns, his work usually concerns Catholic-American intersections, the intimate lives of transgender men, and the flora and fauna of New York State.