LEWIS
Eight months old, round
like a roly poly. Lew has
milk skin, soft as rabbit fur. A smile that's all gum and charm. His laugh is a squeak when I cradle him in
the bend of my arm.
He's a mold, in which you
poured your bone and blood.
I remember ten years
prior. We spent frozen afternoons in
your kitchen. Our red-chilled hands held
steaming coffee cups etched with
elephants and narwhals in pastel hews. We stacked marshmallows and hershey bars on
graham crackers, confided our secrets and
dreams of what we hoped would be.
You wanted a garden with
golden daffodils and to raise
hens who'd lay eggs. I wanted a license and open roads with nowhere to be, and
everywhere to go.
We took two divergent forks in the road.
Now, a first-time
mom. Your eyes linger
on your son. You kiss Lew's plump, potato cheeks. We sit in a different kitchen. Sip glasses of bitter wine that dries our tongues in the orange glow of the
fading afternoon.
