Mom, watch—
       

Pink drifts line the street where my son crouches, scoops, and comes up
flowering. His friend bends, too, eyeing the size of Luke's pile. In this
morning's storm, our plum tree dropped every wet petal and now the
boys face each other, throw open their arms, collapse in laughter when the
petals they hurl go up, not out. Tossing, stooping, tossing: children move
vertically in the world. They leap into each deep puddle; they bet who can
reach the highest branch. They climb our tree all the time. When Luke fell,
I ran to him across the grass: a mother's life is horizontal. I drove. I paced
the waiting room, folded his coat. At home I pulled the covers to his chin; I
wanted him to stay that way, but our natures aren't the same: in a moment,
he was up. Now I'm always watching that tree. More baby jays this year.
Since he was small, Luke's pointed to the sky, loved anything that flies.
One by one, each jay will fall. Or jump. I've watched the mother watch.
I've watched her shuffle back and forth along her branch.

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Copyright © 2012 Jennifer Richter All rights reserved
from Subtropics
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission