REARING HOMINIDS

The year they found her bones my son was riding my hip. The year they found her bones he learned to sing, sitting on my lap: Row, row, row your boat, life is but a dream. I watched him climb the chairs, he practiced stairs. We made faces: Can you make a happy face? Angry? Silly? Sad?

He learned to say please and thank you, the intricate gaze and glance. Sentences grew long. He found meter and rhyme, the spine of his stamping dance.

Raising little hominids takes time.

Juvenile, he stalked us with his friends, spying from the edges of the lawn; always they carried sticks. He kept an eye on girls, to see, he said. what they’ll do next. Adolescent, he found his clan; invented lives and names.

Now, he’s a long walk away but the mother-bond holds tight: his low voice on the phone every Sunday night. I believe Lucy held together. Our hearts shatter, people scatter. Our bones come apart.