It’s easy to like a poem that scoops
out the marrow of what it means to be a loving parent (in my case,
grandparent). This poem by Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer offers much of the
wonderful truth about loving the little ones, including the sadness of wanting so
desperately to guarantee their happiness—we would give up all else if we could
do that….
A Devastation
In the dark before we
are fully awake
I hold my son on the
couch.
He curls his long
thin limbs
into my familiar lap,
his body
startlingly warm and
soft
and surprisingly
light, though
he gives me all his
weight.
No, I do not want to
let go of this,
and I hold him here,
though there
are lunches to make,
hold him
though there is snow
to shovel,
hold him though my
arm falls asleep,
though the clock
ticks toward school
and work and dawn. I
am well aware
there are other
things I long to hold,
impossible things,
like his happiness,
his security, his
certainty that he is beloved,
long even to hold
onto my idea that I
am a good mother,
that I will never
let him down. Though
I know I do.
Oh love, is that you,
shaking my body?
Published March 23, 2016, on
Rosemerry’s website: A Hundred Falling Veils
Copyright © Richard Carl Subber 2016
All rights reserved.
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