The kindergarten bus
My daughter, now a lean wry young woman, tells me
This morning that on her first day of kindergarten she
Sat in the back of the bus on the way home and all the
Other kids got off in gaggles and duos but she did not
Because she didn't recognise any familiar corners. So
She sat quietly as the bus emptied. She wasn't scared,
She says. It took a while but the driver finally noticed
One last quiet child sitting in the back; the driver then
Slowly retraced the whole route, until the right corner,
Complete with worried parents, presented itself. There
Are many ways to look at this story. You could ponder
The mature calm of the child, the frantic of the parents,
The way the child was confronted by unfamiliar angles
And unknown geometries; but this morning let's salute
The driver, who understood that the quiet child was not
Quiet inside, who took the time to slowly and carefully
Help her find where where she fit, where she was home.
If we ever got to be
What we so want to be
One time years ago when I was at the end of my rope
I was standing by the fireplace at my brother's house
Explaining haltingly why I was at the end of my rope
And I started to cry and could not stop no matter how
I tried; and I tried. It's hard for a guy to cry endlessly
And helplessly. It is. Some remote part of you shouts
Man, get it together, this is totally beyond the bounds.
But I couldn't stop. My brother and his wife sat quiet.
They didn't say anything or try to calm me down. I'll
Always be grateful for that, for some reason; for what
They didn't do. After a while my brother stood up and
Reached out and just cupped his big hand on my neck.
That's all. Seems like a small gesture, doesn't it? Tiny,
Even, the sort of slight touch we bestow without much
Thinking. But it was huge to me. I suspect touch is big
All the time, bigger than we can articulate. I believe in
Fact that touch is an articulate wordless huge language.
You know what I mean — those times when words give
Up and all you can do is touch an arm or neck or cheek
Or shoulder and something is said and heard and that's
Eloquent and ancient and haunting and the best of what
We could be if we ever got to be what we so want to be.
Poem for Father's Day
No one talks about this,