She huddled next to her son,
Trying to convey to him
The reason to wait. Just wait.
He slumped back on too many pillows,
Rolled his eyes, and fiddled
With the tiny rosettes on the headboard

Of course his eyes rolled.
He knew everything.

She gave an alternative; two, three.
She pleaded. He didn't know.
What could he get himself into?
She reached out, trying to catch
His ambition, his reckless,
with waxy, paper hands;
Veins pulsing at the skin,
And take it from him.

He shrugged her hands off his shoulders,
He glared at them, as they lay rejected,
Clasped, on top of her legs,
Flannel pajama covered and wary,
Hands twitching, urgently trying
To reach back out,
A shield to the world

He stood and walked away.


She still pictures him,
While knitting, rocking back, forth,
Cracking, dying hands warming
Before the crackling, dying fire

He is heading back now, she thinks,
He will write tomorrow, she predicts,
He misses me, she hopes.