I found you
last night
playing in the attic
of your mother’s farmhouse.

A little boy
with those brown bangs, and eager-for-life eyes.
You wore your soft wooly sweater
and corduroy trousers.

When you looked my way
you put aside your toy truck
and rushed along the narrow eaves
to hug me.
It was as natural
as if no years had intervened.

Your mother, meanwhile,
remained in the den, patching some of your clothes
after ignoring my pleas
of why she was not sending you to school
these days, though the teachers had been calling,
and receiving no response.

She kept silent with me too
just labouring on and on
almost obsessive in her attention to the chore
so I made my way back
toward the attic
but this time you had moved
to your room, with the blue painted walls
the hockey banners and trophies
on display,
and you were tall, too tall
to fit into that slope-ceilinged attic now.

A young adult, you smiled at me again
the familiar warmth for your loved ones
emanating, the glow that you never turned off
through all the teen years
lighting my heart
but then I knew
why you were not in school,
why your mother would not speak
of sending of you off.

You had come back
for a visit, or to stay?
But you were beyond the everyday
of elementary or high school obligations.
You were where you belonged.
In her home, your home, together.

I’m grateful that you showed me
you are just the same.
Content, playful, but full of awareness and care
for the rest of us,
no matter
what your age,
and that you're fine

In the times
when we need you most,
you do this.

Thanks for the visit last night
in my dreams, dear nephew.
I don't need to tell my sister,
for I'm sure she saw you first.

04/19/2005

Posted on 04/19/2005
Copyright © 2024 Maureen Glaude