
Time, a poem.

Nothing prepares you
in the beginning when he wails into night’s quiet hours
and maybe it’s not about him needing you that much
more about him being mad
to be pushed from warm nest into cold world.
Still you do what you can, breast to soft mouth, arms wrapped
tight against everything. You let go in small ways
like a bandage being torn slowly from scab over wound
you feel how he forgets to look back
that first time at the playground, how he smiles wider
with his friends. It’s what you do. Nobody tells you exactly how.
You order each memory in a scrapbook, smooth down his life captured
in a thousand framed stories
and wonder how seventeen years can lay out so well on the page
while inside
you are ragged edged, coming unglued.
Considering the upcoming High School Graduation of my son, Malcolm James Evans, whom I am especially fond of.
SDG, Lesley-Anne
207. sumac hugging the banks of the upper Don River Valley
208. church spire above urban sprawl
209. old brick houses that someone still loves
210. hugging Dad
211. hugging Mom
212. playing silly hand clapping games with my neice
213. phone calls home
214. realizing home and the place you grew up are two different things
215. split rail fences
216. patina, erosion, moss, and all things that measure time passing
217. finding the one trophy I ever won for being a ‘good citizen’ in grade school
218. new and old things to photograph
219. preparing a meal for my parents
220. Hummingbird at Mom’s feeder
221. the kindness of the Go bus driver who let me ride with no cash to pay for my fare
222. moon shining on my bed
223. internet access after a few days without it
224. playing childhood piano in the livingroom
225. good food, wine and conversation in local cafe