k0an.com

For Jace, my son, and my English 11 students

young mother verses
young enough to remember what it was
like to be young mother,
years apart
tears apart
(30 makes me meet them, amidst a struggle,
though only briefly)

I see a glimpse of my son
in the faces of my students,
sometimes shudder,
sometimes smile

I can never know what he will be
until someday for myself I will see.

I am in the yard
on the covered patio.
It is raining.
My son is pulling close to me
because of the light chill
like he already rarely does anymore,
wanting to be free exploring
crawling, walking, then running

away from me

I imagine how far away from their mothers
my students are
and wonder
how this bond could be desecrated
how the distant line could be crossed
into drugs, fighting, disrespecting, demeaning,
the destruction of love,
lying, dying,
flying head first into their own loud screaming,
fists up.
Is this what it is to be a man?
a woman even?
(Not even a novel could tell this
English teacher,
where the true loss of innocence occurs.)

Still.
This is real.
This is something I could have never known
until now.
Being what you were meant to be
is all I ever want to see
from you


my son
my students

I see my son’s smile up toward me like I am everything
fade into the apathy on the faces of many.

Yet, I see a few hold him
sweetly, carefully, gently,
or say something unique
or world defying,
or funny,
or optimistic
(with that same smile
they probably had when they were babies)
and know--- there is hope
deep within the hearts of some.