Wednesday, January 03, 2007

#255: January 3, 2007

You'd think he would be happy all the time:
seven years old, new toys, a daily nap,
his future spread before him like a map
of green hills to explore, wide trees to climb;

And yet, already, he's thinking of death:
his mother's, mine--he mourns us in his bed,
trembling, the covers up over his head
until his cheeks grow damp with condensed breath.

Can't he be innocent of thoughts like these
a little longer? Breathlessly I run
to snatch him from his sheets, caress his head,
and shush this startling sadness; put instead
around his mind a careless childhood ease--
whispering, "Don't you cry; I'm here now, son."

2 comments:

middleclasstool said...

Ick. I remember the first time I realized my dad could die. I was convinced we'd be homeless beggars, and was inconsolable. Probably about that age, in fact.

He's a bright one, that kid. I suspect you've got a lifetime of him figuring stuff out before you'd like him to. ;)

Sonnet Boy said...

Another thing you've got to look forward to. :) It's really hard--you want to promise you'll always be there for him, but you can't rightly do that. I just promised I'd do my best to stay healthy and stick around as long as I could. Which was probably cold comfort, but whatchagonnado? I don't want to lie.