Watching my son, 8, shovel snow [a poem]
I
There’s a storm raging
clouds block the sun
snow chokes the soil
wind shoves me aside
and cold seizes my bones.
But near me peeks
a red jacket holding up
brown cowlicked hair atop
two front teeth that are his whole smile.
I hear, through the howling of wind,
metal scraping against concrete
and I follow that buoyant red patch back and forth
as he piles snow towering over his head
until he notices my eyes
frozen on him
steeled against the cold
wondering how long he’ll last and he calls to me
I’ve got this Dad
II
Yesterday that same head of hair
rolled on the floor like a scent drunk dog
hit the table like a raging grunt
acting high when he was merely lost,
disregulated again.
A week ago that smile, those two front teeth
shone with his hazelnut eyes
as he got into a fight
and refused help,
stuck
and I debated giving up
sure I had failed, begging for help
cursing this damned disability
once again.
Was that the same boy?
III
A faded memory, from long ago
I imagined him
in this very snowstorm, or one of its kin
holding the shovel next to me
as I passed on lessons, how to be in this world
confident
capable
charismatic.
But that was long ago
before I knew
the obligation, the hurt, the pain
before I really knew love
and what it meant to push aside the world
and create it anew
for them.
IV
The snow keeps coming
and he keeps pushing
rigidly defiant against the cold
smiling through the snow
determined to finish
while I watch, huddled against the wind and the cold.
I drift into the future
through years of snowfalls
with shovels that will clear his own path
against the world
with its fears, judgments, insincerities, and even its hatred.
I start to ask
Do you have this, son?
But the question drowns in the storm
and he keeps shoveling.