Below is a poem I started writing near the end of summer 2020, and picked up some lines I was writing with last night. Often, I felt both of my children gave me wings, and were–and are–the essence of my happiness.
I remember the age of superheroes,
and when my son is small. It seems
a day,
only a day ago when I hear him say,
“When I fly, Mommy, will I wear a
cape?” In the recesses of my mind,
I watch her leap. I see him fly
with a cape
buttoned
around his neck.
In the age of superheroes, I say,
“I don’t know about capes.
Those are just stories we tell.”
Sometime ago, when select
men and women fly or
leap high in the air, I tousle
his hair as we ride down
the road when I hear
a voice from the seat
behind me. It sounds like the
beautiful result of God’s
experimentation in laughter.
“When I fly, Mommy,
my wings will be long.
They will have stars
and not sparkles
because they itch me.”
I laugh and say,
“Wings will be made of
whatever they
have in store.”
But the voice fades
when I pull into my
gravel drive, and I think
I see her head just above
the tall grass. She takes her flight with
wings I cannot see, but I think I hear her
say, “Mommy, did you see me?”
No, I did not.
When I hear you,
those are stories
my mind tells.
The age of superheroes comes to
an end, and she flies in a world
I cannot see. “We will fly, son,”
I say, “but it is not
anything anyone can see.”
After all, the age of superheroes
disappears into the stories we tell.
I continue and say, “Our capes
are made of the same weight
as anchors used on ships.
Or, instead of capes, our wings
will be formed from the results
of storms at sea
crashing
against rock, and of chipped
paint when old boards bend.”
“Will we fly then?”
he asks of me.
“Not like her,” I reply,
“But when we learn to
laugh again, our wings
dipped in storms, will
shine like sunlight on
the waves as they settle.”
“I don’t know, Mom,”
he says. “They may just
be the stories we tell.”
By Rebecca T. Dickinson All writing is copyrighted by R.T. Dickinson, 2020-2021.
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