Slouched in the passenger seat,
he slides a sideling glance,
“Shall I tell her how I feel
this time?
“Would she understand?’
Remote,
assessing:
“Or will she embarrass
me? Tell her friends?”
“Condescend? Get it wrong?”
He
shrugs and turns away.
I
stop at a light.
“Who are you now?” I don’t ask.
“Who are you, large young
man? What goes on
behind your silent
eyes?
What is it like with your
fuzzy chin? your
big feet?
What would you say with your
bass voice?
“I am so proud of you,” I don’t say.
“Competence, confidence,
passion, energy, grace—
“In every way
you do delight me so.”
(Be
quiet, mom. I’m separating. Not this year. Wait.)
“Is my boy still in there?” I wonder.
“The little one in yellow
footed sleepers, with a stuffed dog?
“Is he still there,
somewhere deep inside?
“Does it hurt, youth?
Does it hurt like mine did
thirty
years ago?”
Will we be friends again,
someday, or are you gone forever?
We
get to school.
“Have
a good day,” I say too brightly. “See you tonight.”
“Right,
mammy,” he growls. “Later.”
© Jean M. Campbell 2001