A grown child, daydreaming still,
buckles his children into the backseat.
He always wanted children, but
he could only imagine
embodied joy for his wife,
a practical, loving, patient,
The car is loaded, children & backpacks,
driver & briefcase. They sing & poke,
squeal & complain, erupt in a
laughter, an intimacy with
an expiration date. A timeline
that he alone knows.
He's nostalgic for now even now.
The grown child, new to selflessness,
(signal on, hands at ten & two)
imagines a future where they're grown,
where they are burdened like him with
all they are,
all they've chosen,
all they dream.
And he, the future-he, now old, is
elsewhere, a phone call
forgotten another day. Maybe
tomorrow, the future-they think.
For now, he parks the car,
he unfastens the belts,
he kisses their fragrant heads
as they leave.
The day is long & bright
and calls them to now,
to learn, to play.
[After Ruth Moose's The Crossing]