The silver needle finally acquiesced as it probed the black thread.
Do all parents go through this?, I wonder.
Today’s battlefield object lies crumpled on my lap;
A one-day winter jacket that already looks shabby,
Marked by carelessness. Squinting at the black cloth,
I concentrate on repairing the huge serrated pocket.
What had been a pretty nice day is now spoiled
Because of the fiery discussion between mother and son.
The falling tears catch the lamplight, rolling then
Splash landing on shiny wetted material.
We no longer share laughter, it seems that they are words of anger.
I pause mid-stitch, a horrible thought hits me …
Hates me?
It doesn’t seem like it was so long ago that I was a happy soul
Before the hormones and homework wrapped around him.
The battle had ended hours ago with doors slamming
Only to be replaced by a thick and sullen silence
Filtering out of her habitually noisy room,
Hiding the very air he breathed.
A soft knock announced their arrival. He slides silently into the room.
For a brief second, I marvel at this clumsy boy
Almost filling the door frame. I dare not raise my head too much.
You will not witness my tears, not now, not ever.
Never show weakness in battle, even if you feel it.
Drag your feet. I prepare for the second round.
“Yes?” I say stiffly. “I’m sorry, mom …” he murmurs,
Leaning forward quickly to kiss the top of my bowed head.
I’m so stunned that I can’t answer right away.
Not even realizing that it would be too late anyway.
It has already retired to its own domain.
Then something funny happened.
In the midst of all the confusion
In that gloriously precious moment,
I know suddenlyhe– whatever happens,
No matter how many times we fight and argue
We still have love, and we always will.
A broken pocket that I can replace.
My son, I can’t.