My son was almost three when I got sick
enough for surgery and weeks away.
I ached for him – if I had had my pick,
they would have brought my boy to where I lay.
When I came home at last he wouldn’t leave;
he slept upon the rug beside my bed.
His face contorted as he learned to grieve
and season love with anger in his head.

And now, among pandemic global melt,
my son is grown and rears a toddler three
years old, contending with disruption felt
by all, but understood imperfectly
in childhood. It hurts to watch him change
from glee to muddled grief, as we derange.