By John Gallaher

I search “What to wear when meeting your birth mother,” and the first result
is “Ways to Ruin an Adoption Reunion.” So now I have this new thought
to occupy myself with. “Be interested,” it says: favorite foods; favorite music;
what did they like to do in school; favorite place to vacation;
share pictures of yourself growing up.

In high school, junior year, I was George Gibbs in Our Town,
the 1938 meta-theatrical three-act play by Thornton Wilder,
regarding small-town Grover’s Corners. I married Emily Webb,
who died during intermission
and ghost-watched us through the final act, “Death
and Eternity.” She asks the Stage Manager if anyone
truly understands the value of life, and he responds, “Not really.”

The idea of the Our Town graveyard though, that’s something
I get: the names in order, catalogued, in their folding chairs,
neat rows, the Stage Manager wishing the audience a good night.

We botch so many things, whole lives sometimes.
People should say “botch” more. It’s a useful word,
so we don’t have to say “fuck up” so often. That’s what
I could say when I meet my birth mother. It will be a Monday,
we’ll be strangers in a restaurant who bear a resemblance,
and I will want nothing but to suddenly appear
in all her old family photos, birthdays,
4th of Julys, Christmases. I’m practicing each of them
in front of the bathroom mirror.

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John Gallaher’s forthcoming collection of poetry is My Life in Brutalist Architecture (Four Way Books 2024). He lives in northwest Missouri and co-edits the Laurel Review.