He is my bones,
in ways I can feel when I look at him,
when I miss him.
My son becomes stronger without me,
adding weight to his lean frame,
becoming keener,
as he always has,
honing himself like a Hawk balanced on the edge of a hunt.
He is his own heart now,
has been for more years than I would like,
if it were my choice,
and it’s not.
He can hold the portions of life served to him,
savor them, begin to sculpt them into a path that winds well enough.
Still, my part is not yet done,
he hasn’t held my weakened body as everything of me fades,
leaving him with my haunting self.
I have a yearning prayer that my son will find soft purchase somewhere, anywhere.
He is my bones,
he will take them and make new songs in the world.
