Prodigal son

has it really been six months since i have seen you?

and how many angry words have passed between us in this time?

so many misunderstandings

it must be difficult to let the dream die of who you wish your mother was

and to love me, this woman, instead

the prodigal mother has returned

right now in the silence, i drink in the sweetness of your slumber

how many times have i watched over you sleeping and marveled at the brown of your skin and hair?

of the impossible beauty of my own son, who is 18

flesh of my flesh and bone of my bone

i worship you

i worship the life that moves through you that was born to live on its on

and what an amazing thing that we can come together and i can fall asleep on your shoulder at dinner

you who used to fall asleep in my lap as a baby, as a boy

and now you are a grown man

it is not easy to become a man in this world

i am not a man, but the journey to become a woman, to become myself

to become human has been beguiling and exaughsting at times

and still continues as i search for patterns in the sky

and you here now, is part of me becoming woman, mother,

you help me know who i am, what i have come to experience

some people worship their ancestors

i worship my son

in these days of youth you are as bright as the sun

and determined to struggle as a gutter punk angel

god you make me laugh

showing up at my door with your hobo stick

a wooden pole with your clothes tied up in a blanket bundle on the end

there is nothing to hold onto as you shapeshift and grow

there was a time when you grew like a ripe seed inside me

and when you were born, i could always protect you

but as you grew, i could not protect you from the things we must each face on our own

like the inevitability of death and the desire to leave a mark on the world

and what a shame to go from being your god, the one who birthed and suckled you

to being slowly diminished to a hypocritical woman

because who has seen my shortcomings and suffered for them more than my own child?

there is nothing to hold onto

it feels so holy, as you sleep in your own silence to be here, to be aware of this moment. so pregnant with grace. i used to tell my classes, what is grace? grace is the when things change that you never thought could change. when things you thought were impossible begin to soften, shift and move

is such a small woman allowed so much glory in one life? can such a vulnerable arrangement of flesh and bones withstand the white surge of so much beauty? i keep asking for this container to be able to hold more.