My Children

My lovely children,

gangly,

they hum or sing

but do not talk.

They reach out

to grab forcefully

and will scrape their fingernails

down my arm if I let them,

leaving red hieroglyphs

of their inner life

and sorrows.

 

I hold them closely,

squeeze shoulders,

and direct with my hips.

We walk together

down the school hallway

arm in arm

like guiding the blind,

though which one of us is blind

I am not sure.

Certainly, they don’t see their way into our world

and I can only glimpse into theirs.

 

We will sing

and taste the world,

look for confirmation

or challenge.

I will proffer words,

holding them out

like Theseus’ rope

guiding them

to the love of others.

For love is communication

and words travel through air

to vibrate and tickle

another person’s ears.

We will seek each other

through fingertips

and song

and sometimes even

a picture or two

or a collection of distinct sound waves

moving between us.

 

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