"The Lanyard" by Billy Collins

The other day as I was ricocheting slowly
Off the pale blue walls of this room,
Bouncing from typewriter to piano,
From bookshelf to an envelope lying on the floor,
I found myself in the L section of the dictionary
Where my eyes fell upon the word lanyard.

No cookie nibbled by a French novelist
Could send one more suddenly into the past --
A past where I sat at a workbench at a camp
By a deep Adirondack lake
Learning how to braid thin plastic strips
Into a lanyard, a gift for my mother.



I had never seen anyone use a lanyard
Or wear one, if that’s what you did with them,
But that did not keep me from crossing
Strand over strand again and again
Until I had made a boxy
Red and white lanyard for my mother.

She gave me life and milk from her breasts,
And I gave her a lanyard.
She nursed me in many a sickroom,
Lifted teaspoons of medicine to my lips,
Set cold face-cloths on my forehead,
And then led me out into the airy light

And taught me to walk and swim,
And I, in turn, presented her with a lanyard.
Here are thousands of meals, she said,
And here is clothing and a good education.
And here is your lanyard, I replied,
Which I made with a little help from a counselor.

Here is a breathing body and a beating heart,
Strong legs, bones and teeth,
And two clear eyes to read the world, she whispered,
And here, I said, is the lanyard I made at camp.
And here, I wish to say to her now,
Is a smaller gift--not the archaic truth

That you can never repay your mother,
But the rueful admission that when she took
The two-tone lanyard from my hands,
I was as sure as a boy could be
That this useless, worthless thing I wove
Out of boredom would be enough to make us even.