My son does not understand fear,
he is 3,
he thinks in color,
he believes in magic,
he says that our dog Smokey
controls the weather.
Watch him as he goes!
Jumping over cracks on sidewalks,
pretending to fly,
attempting to get near electric outlets
because he saw them spark once,
fire is cool!
"Watch me Mommy!
Some days I stay in bed all day,
I tell everyone I am catching a cold,
a sinus infection,
another migraine again.
It is easier to lie than to explain,
that it is too difficult to shower,
to find an outfit, to brush my hair,
to make food,
to chew it.
Friends jokingly call me a hypochondriac,
my Mother thinks I am mellow dramatic,
My son asks me if I need my temperature checked.
It is too honest to say,
"I am fighting monsters, and they won today."
Who would believe me if I did?
We are taught since childhood
to not believe in the things
we can not see.
The day we buried my Grandfather,
I wore my favorite gray dress,
I was scared to taint it
with such a sad memory,
but I was 8 months pregnant
and nothing else fit.
We threw dirt in a hole
as three strangers watched us grieve.
They stood with shovels ready to do their jobs,
ready to get home to their loved ones.
All I could think about was how much
it aches to love anyone,
even in the good times, it aches.
Loss dances outside our window
like flames, waiting to engulf.
I vowed to protect my child
from any unnecessary pain,
I vowed to make him feel safe.
Now I fear I am the one
tainting him in gray.
Not every day is bad,
most days are nice, in fact,
some days are so good
that the bad ones seem
like distant memories.
On the good days I feel brave,
brave like my son;
I tickle his tummy and show him
which lights are stars, which are planets,
and tell him I love him, always,
no matter what.