The Tea Grows Cold
While I tend to my son’s scraped knee.
The steam rises and rolls without me
as the teabag steeps darker and stronger
before my first sip.
Never again will he be so open.
I wash the grit from his glistening cut,
exchange his sobs for apple wedges
as we bite into the afternoon.
How this boy can overwhelm me with love for him
over and over and over again.
The world can go on now
a bit changed, like the cells of the skin
of which we both share. When the moment passes
I pull my spoon across the brown water like an oar
rowing myself back to shore.