My son is not like the other children.He builds a kingdom of stones
and loves them well, but silently. Like any parent,he teaches them their nature.
I try to do the same. I give him names, taxonomies:I say Limestone is sedimentary.
He says Limestone is sedimentaryand returns to his silence.
One might think stones would make well-behaved grandchildren.This is not the case.
They fall over often. They disobey his rules.At this he flaps his arms in distress.
His wailing in the night. These broken rows.Our tragedies.
None of us can keep an even temper. We alter under pressure.We cleave apart. We cleave together.
His cool cheek, marble, chalk. These stones.Our triumphs.
My son is like the other children.He knocks stones into the river to drink
beyond his gaze. He learns to love this hazard of distancelike any parent. I become anxious, some nights.
Some nights I go to his green room and unwrap his sleeping palmto find basalt, quartz,
crumbling pieces of shale, warm as though sustaining him,as though freshly born.