What a great poem this morning on one of my favorite poetry blogs — Autumn Sky Poetry Daily. Editor Christine Klocek-Lim’s selections are always spot-on, and this one touches my memories of my own kids’ teenaged years.
Cleats
After practice, my son kicks off his cleats
and leaves them under the front seat.
He treats the van like a storage locker,
draping his uniform and sweats around.
The daughter complains each morning
as I take her to school. The cleats smell.
They’re in her way. It’s not fair. I agree
with all of these points, and yet I don’t
tell the son to move them. For one,
it’s yet another argument I’m too tired
to have. There are already so many things
I’m prodding him about: homework,
showers, closing doors, drinking water …
and, to be honest, I kind of like them there,
this mark of the boy, these muddy talismans.
He used to hold my hand as he fell asleep,
and once he pulled his fingers away,
picked his nose, then slid them back in my palm.
Yes, this is love, I thought then, holding snot
View original post 106 more words
thank you for sharing this, a real definition of love
LikeLike
Yes, I thought so too.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Loved that conversational tone…perfectly done.
LikeLike
Love it when a poem is so simple and so profound.
LikeLiked by 1 person
That’s a wonderful memory. Well told.
LikeLike
Yes. I smiled when I read it.
LikeLike