At Night, When I Cup Him in My Arms

This poem was inspired by my son, Solace....the sweetest son this world has ever known.

At Night, When I Cup Him in My Arms

he is still so fragile, so little, so small

the world is still fountains of space for his eyes to recall

a rabbit running past is still a lightning of wonder

and he chases happily after

screaming….”dog!!”

see, my son is still shrouded in innocence

even in those moments when he kicks and screams

too young to understand

bigotry and resistance

too inexperienced

to know hope can flicker brightly for a moment, then suddenly

dull in one instance, and I shudder

at the burden of protecting him from these things

because

I wish I could always keep the world off his shoulders

mount the weight of his sorrows on my back like Atlas

and bear them for him, hoping he avoids that practice, but I know

he won’t always be a little boy tomorrow

one day he will walk in his father’s shoes

scurrying and scraping, struggling to try and make

his mark in a world that’s never going to give him proper dues

and my one wish, that I possess the proper tools to

teach him

reach down inside myself

and give him one ounce of the courage

needed to find ways out of no way, to locate the cracks in the

wall around happiness and breach them

one thread of the fiber necessary to practice decency and truth

and one backbone sturdy enough to go out and preach them

one iota of the willingness I never had

to face fears that sometimes feel relentless

I long to brace him from the often quickened pace of this

attack, retreat, attack, retreat, attack, retreat, attack, retreat

fighting for inches to reach a goal

in a world full of things trying to prevent this

and I pray often to God that he doesn’t

get this, from me,

this bad habit of

trying to save everything

because while it’s a truly noble cause, which makes it a beautiful thing

there are going to be far too many times when

his heart’s torn from his sleeve

free flowing, emotional, trying to face the moment when

he tries his best to get there, but just can’t be

failing to save the relationship with the one woman he’s ever loved….or

failing to save the job that didn’t appreciate him enough anyway….and

failing to save the education that his parents always stressed about him getting….

failing to save himself from the fear of himself failing…

but then I remember

he inherits my bloodline, but he does not have to be gifted these failures of mine

he will find himself, at the inherent time

it is only up to me to help get him there

and as I touch his face with the palm of my hand

realizing that I am helping to raise a man

and yet still sometimes find myself tripping over

the responsibility that label entails

I am scared shitless

wondering if I have enough wits about me

fearing he will not have enough strength without me

constantly looking for support around me

it is there

and it exists in the guidance that my father left me

my son is not yet two years old

he is still fragile, still little, still so small

at night, when I cup him in my arms

I hold him close, hoping he will never fall

wishing that

I could forever taper his tears

shred his worries paper thin, until they disappear

and then syphon out each and every one of his fears, brandishing him

an inner peace

he smiles a lot in his sleep

and sometimes breaks into laughter

which makes me decide to just worry about making

his best day this day

and then the next one, and the next

and the next one after

all the rest

will take care of itself

[END POEM]


Hope that everyone enjoyed this one.  Parents, treasure every second of every moment.  One day, you'll have to step aside, but until then guide your children well.

the Rare Poet