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:
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. ;)
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.
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