My son squats atop the rocky outcrop in Kakiat park. He gazes toward the distant New York City skyline. Even after ten years, he maintains a comfortable “frog” posture that his second-grade teacher warned us about. He says nothing. I hold my tongue in deference. I remember those moments when I, too, savored silence. As I still do.
a shadow passing over
I see his face as I glance in the rearview mirror, on our drive home. He has a neutral expression on is face, but there is a serene confidence radiating from his eyes. It’s like seeing the boy he was and the man he is becoming simultaneously.
he takes the keys
from my hand
Wasn’t it just yesterday that we took him home? He, wrapped in receiving blankets, wearing a newborn, wool hat. We, strapping him in his rear-facing carseat. I, driving home so slowly, the most recent snow still along the streets after the latest Nor’Easter.
How does seventeen-and-a-half years pass in a day?
the silence after
the last drop
dVerse Poets Pub celebrates 8 years of poetry, with a Poetics prompt by a very special guest: one of our co-founders, Brian Miller! The Pub is open! Come join us!