Don't Make A Fuss

She said, "don't make a fuss." We heard, "make it a big one." You said a card would be plenty, maybe dinner, nothing more — the same thing you've been saying since nineteen eighty-four. But we know the dishes-doing hum, the radio low, the porch light on. Sixty years of "I'm fine, honey" — tonight we're calling your bluff. Don't make a fuss? Mama, we're making a fuss — balloons in the kitchen, the good plates out. Six decades of you holding us up — tonight the whole house holds you now. Sorry, not sorry — blow out the flame. Sixty looks like everything you gave. You grew up before we knew you, a whole life before our names, carried this family through its winters and called it just the way. The cinnamon smell of your December, your laugh that ends in everyone's. Sixty years of "don't you bother" — we're bothering. Sit down. Don't make a fuss? Mama, we're making a fuss — balloons in the kitchen, the good plates out. Six decades of you holding us up — tonight the whole house holds you now. Sorry, not sorry — blow out the flame. Sixty looks like everything you gave. And when the grandkids ask one day why we never missed this night, we'll say: she never made a fuss of herself. So we did. Every time. Don't make a fuss? Mama, we're making a fuss — balloons in the kitchen, the good plates out. Six decades of you holding us up — tonight the whole house holds you now. Sorry, not sorry — blow out the flame. Sixty looks like everything you gave. She said, "don't make a fuss." Too late, Mama. Too late.