There is a stretch of child­hood that can be filled with such vivid images, yet it is often hard to deter­mine whether what is being recalled is mem­o­ry of our expe­ri­ence, or a mem­o­ry of what we have been told. Jes­si­ca Abughat­tas’ poem, ​“Watch­ing My Moth­er”, ends with such opti­mism and con­fi­dence, even though the details of what she remem­bers are a styl­ized and beau­ti­ful ver­sion of dis­qui­et. In this ele­gant poem, she enacts the strange mag­ic of how we often orga­nize mem­o­ry in a man­ner that allows us to survive.