The threads that bind us (poem)

The silver needle finally acquiesced as it probed the black thread.

Do all parents go through this?, I wonder.

Today’s battlefield object lies crumpled on my lap;

A one-day winter jacket that already looks shabby,

Marked by carelessness. Squinting at the black cloth,

I concentrate on repairing the huge serrated pocket.

What had been a pretty nice day is now spoiled

Because of the fiery discussion between mother and son.

The falling tears catch the lamplight, rolling then

Splash landing on shiny wet material.

We no longer share laughter, it seems that they are words of anger.

I pause mid-stitch, a horrible thought hits me …

Hates me?

It doesn’t seem like it was so long ago that I was a happy soul

Before the hormones and homework wrapped around him.

The battle had ended hours ago with doors slamming

Only to be replaced by a thick and sullen silence

Filtering out of your habitually noisy room,

Hiding the very air that he breathed.

A soft knock announced their arrival. He slides silently into the room.

For the briefest second, I marvel at this clumsy boy

Almost filling the door frame. I don’t dare raise my head too high.

You will not witness my tears, not now, not ever.

Never show weakness in battle, even if you feel it.

Drag your feet. I prepare for the second round.

“Yes?” I say stiffly. “I’m sorry mom …” he murmurs,

Leaning forward quickly to kiss the top of my bowed head.

I am so stunned that I cannot answer right away.

Not even realizing that it would be too late anyway.

It has already retired to its own domain.

Then something funny happened.

In the midst of all the confusion

In that gloriously precious moment,

I know suddenlyhe– whatever happens,

No matter how many times we fight and argue

We still have love, and we always will.

A broken pocket that I can replace.

My son, I can’t.