The silver needle finally agreed to the piercing black thread.
Do all parents go through this, I wonder.
The goal of today's battlefield lies crumpled on my lap;
A day-old winter jacket already shabby
Scarred by mistake. Squint on black fabric
I concentrate on repairing the gaping, saw tooth pockets.
What had been one days was pleasant enough, now tarnished
By the burning conflict between mother andSon.
Falling Tears catch the lamplight, then roll
Splash Landing muted on glossy materials.
We do not have more shares laughter, only angry words, it seems.
I pause mid-stitch, a terrible thought occurs to me ...
Does he hate me?
It seems not so long ago that he had a happy soul
Prior to the hormones and homework swallowed him.
The battle had ended hours ago in banging doors
Only with a thick, sullen silence version
Seepage from his usual loud room
Cloaking the air I breathed.
A light knock announced his arrival. He slips quietly into the room.
For a brief second, I am surprised at this awkward young man
Nearly filling the doorway. I dare raise my head high.
He will not witness my tears, not now, not ever.
Never show weakness in the fight, even if you feel it.
He shuffles his feet. I take myself in readiness for roundtwo.
"Yes?" I say stiffly. "Sorry, Mom ..." He murmurs,
Bent to kiss the top of my soon to head down.
I am so amazed that I can not respond immediately to
And do not even recognize that it would be too late anyway.
He already has his own domain back.
Then a funny thing happened.
In all in confusion,
In this lovely single precious moment
Suddenly I know, I know that no matter what,
No matter how manyTimes we fight and argue,
We still have, and always will love.
A torn bag, I can not replace.
My son, I can not.
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