we both get up late, in foul moods:
mine, adult-sized, full of worries,
with your Dad out sick from work, sleeping
wrapped up in a blanket on the couch;
yours, child-sized, your usual anxieties
magnified by my rushing, barking orders
instead of making motherly requests
as you refuse to eat the eggs I made
because they don't taste like the ones
Dad makes, because they're too
brown, or not brown enough
and the yogurt isn't the right kind
and the toast is toast and not bread
and you wanted cereal anyway
and breakfast comes with a side of tears
because I'm not talking to you nicely
but there isn't time for that,
five minutes late already
at the front door
I show you the new shoes
that I bought for you last night on sale
for the running club you started
yesterday; you say they fit
perfect
out the door
hustle to school
arguing all the way
about who got up late
and whose fault it all is
and how it all makes us feel
finally
I deliver you, with just a quick
hug and kiss,
to your classroom
where your teacher greets you --
asks if you were just running late?
I say yes, sheepishly
you take your desk, and as I walk away
your teacher follows me
out the door, calls my name
I think: oh, oh, a reminder, don't be late
but she tells me instead
that a boy who goes
to another school in town
has died, some of the kids in your class
were his family, his friends,
and that you will hear about it,
and that you will tell me about this
and that we might have to talk about loss
and all the way home
I want to remake our morning
with softness and quiet
with understanding, even a little joy
where we can find it
and home again,
tears like your tears
finally come to my eyes
for your heart, gentle heart
that will so soon break
