In the sea of shoulders and faces and hats, my son moves
toward me, and I know him only by the singular way
he walks, the angle of neck, the intangible tilt of spine
and pelvis. Not close enough yet for facial features
to swim into focus, it is these indescribable,
primal motions that configure evidence of my boy
before my eyes. Something in me breaks
through the surface of wakefulness in this scene,
only twenty-two days away from a four-years-past
diagnosis. Old worry nudges my joy as he strides closer,
pushes back his baseball cap, eyes and nose and chin
lifting me from my waiting chair, his clipped-short hair
and muscular frame an artesian spring for the thirsty mother
who never stops drinking in his health, who never forgets
his thinner, hairless self during treatment those troubled
months ago, who never stops dreaming him well
every night before sleep: Each bedtime through closed eyes,
I imagine him an old man in a long overcoat, steady
before me on city streets. He turns his head slightly, left
and then right, as though he senses me behind him, yet I am gone
from this world. But here I am now, watching, elated to mark
his steps as sure and his eyes as bright, to note
his discerning air of interest in everyday life, and I follow,
gulping and gulping that cold, fresh water of wellness as
he reaches the corner far ahead. My scrutiny of him, of his
distinctive walk, is boundless, all the way and out of sight.
C. Ann Kodra’s poetry has appeared in Blueline, Now & Then, Peacock Journal, RHINO, Saranac Review, Yemassee, and others. She is a contributing editor for New Millennium Writings and associate editor for MSI Press. Her first poetry collection, Under an Adirondack Moon, was released by Iris Press in October 2017.