Email 14
When Alex was young enough to be in a high chair and bathed by his
parents, I wrote the following about that regular, daily experience. I’m
glad today to know I felt this way then. Maybe it means I never took him
for granted. I pray to God that I never did.
Goodnight
He rubs his spaghetti
into his eyes
he soaks me
with his drink
I need to get him
in the tub
his dishes
in the sink
so with a moistened
paper towel
I wipe his hands
and cheeks
he just
returns the favor
with punches
kicks and shrieks
but I savor
each annoyance
of this moment
and this place
because one day
he won’t need me here
to wipe
his hands and face
He’s heavy
on my back
as I take him
up the stair
laughingly
he pounds my neck
with handfuls
of my hair
as we reach
the very top
he risks his life
and mine
all his fingers
in my eyes
our legs
all intertwined
but even
as he’s strangling me
I try not
to care
because one day
he won’t need me here
to take him up the stair
When he hears me
start his bath
he takes off
down the hall
a naked
screaming banshee
who ignores me
when I call
and once I get him
in the tub
I can’t get
him out
with his thrashing
and his splashing
my clothes are
soaked throughout
but I accept
his tidal waves
remaining
in their path
because one day
he won’t need me here
to see he
gets his bath
Before he goes
to bed I try
to brush his teeth
and hair
he yanks away
the toothbrush
toothpaste flying
everywhere
when he’s finally
in his bed
and there’s time
for me myself
he has to
hear a story
so I take one
from the shelf
but as one hand
turns the pages
the other
holds him tight
because one day
he won’t need me here
to wipe his hands and face
and take him up the stair
and see he gets his bath
and brush his teeth and hair
and read to him a story
and then turn out the light
bring his covers to his chin
and say to him
goodnight