Receiving Mother at Airport

The second thing my mother did when we met
was tell me that my t-shirt looked unclean and unironed,
that I should clean my clothes myself --
I couldn't stop smiling;
We would spend ten minutes in the cab talking about my face,
how a new weather has dented my face with unsightly holes,
She measured me like a stone-mason reviewing damage,
she always seemed to know what I should look like
as if she carried a photo-album inside her purse
and was in the habit of obsessively checking it,
My mother isn't fond of her smartphone yet.
Oddly enough, her litanies make me feel better,
which is weird because it was always me falling short
but that is better than falling without direction,
better to have her definition to rebel against 
than to grasp at meaninglessness every time I start sleeping,
When I returned from the market I knocked on the door,
After months I knew what is to wait for someone inside,
after months I did not spent a minute opening my lock,
and I realized that I'd much rather be impatient
than know that nobody is home,
The first thing my mother did when we met
was hug me tight enough
to compensate for forgetting love,
tight enough to know 
I would sleep without nightmares tonight.