They came home
back to the nest
and, of course,
we welcomed them.
Their rooms still theirs
We’d washed the sheets
that had us thinking
about times we’ve shared
that won’t come back.
Chris said, “You were at work,
and it was just Nick and me.
I’d get tired and lie down on the sofa.
I’d lift him up and down,
whee! until my arms got tired
then he’d rest his head on my chest and we’d nap.
I said, “What I wouldn’t give for one more
game of Grabber-Man.”
So when the colleges turned them out
it felt like, alright, not quite the same
but take it as a gift. And strangely,
it has been. A rewind/replay
all of us together at dinner every evening.
That had me thinking of other last things.
Like: I can point out the Cary Street corner
where it happened. I took Stephen’s hand
to cross the street and he sort of swatted it away.
Told myself, I guess that’s it for that.
But I didn’t mark the last time we chased hot air balloons
or that Nick woke up early just to hang with Dad
or the boys took off their capes, put down their swords
and plastic shields and never picked them up again.
(Hand-me-downs for the neighbor children,
still giddy and chubby and fresh.
I want to school their Dad on that, but he, up to his elbows
in his four little kids, he’d look at me askance.)
(Well, that’s probably half the dream of grandparenting
creaky old knees and old man bad breath
tumbled on the floor to wrestle with the new kid
one more round of Grabber-Man indeed
almost not quite but hey.)
So yesterday when I outrigged a kayak and its paddle,
a surfboard and a bike to his little car
and Nick headed off for the Summer of Covid-19
lifeguarding in the Outer Banks
this wash of feelings, memories, trepidations,
breaking with a shush on the sands of our parenthood.
Buddy sleeps in our room every night
but last night he didn’t come up.
He lay by the front door maybe wondering
when Nick would come back in. He gets it.
Though like us he only dimly understands.
One thought on “One Gift of Our Sequestering: a poem”
Bravo, Bravo! That one put me in tears.
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