Mother and Son
I remember when he held my hand,
insisted on it,
though no longer a baby
or even a toddler.
Regret the times
I insisted he walk
unfettered by my fingers,
now that I miss those cheeks
that once fit into the palm of my small hand,
fail to see why I wished his high-pitched voice,
would break into deepening tones.
Was I preparing myself
for the cut ties,
the growth that leans away. . .
Am I nothing more than a loose string
unraveling at the slightest tug,
a wayward strand of hair
pushed back in annoyance
or without much thought?
I’m tempted to shake him back into my life
like a furious snow scene trapped in glass.
At the same time, want to close my eyes,
plug my ears, wish for ignorance,
ground him when flashes of myself –
ripples in the gene pool – wash over me
in a cold shudder like an October lake;
afraid history will repeat itself . . .
afraid he will swim in a sea of delusions
reaching shore too late,
waterlogged with regret
and blaming me
for the lateness of the hour.
Lynn Tait is an award winning poet/photographer from Sarnia, Ontario, and has been a LCP Member for over 10 years. Her work has appeared in The Windsor Review, Quills, Contemporary Verse 2 and in over 60 anthologies.