A Village, Indeed

To Those Who Have Shaped Him

A thousand things wash over me
I, who am sitting across that square table,
listening to words that tumble
from
his
mouth

He is a good writer,
who understands those letters.
Placing each expertly aside the other,
transforming them
into thoughts that have never entered my own
tired mind

Four adults, eyes and ears perched,
scribble on pads of paper,
making official his passage from teendom
to manhood

They nod, as do I,
though mine is hidden behind this mask,
tears pooling in my eyes

(why do I resist letting them tumble?)

And, just like that,
I have fallen in love with every one of them.
The English teacher with her long, streaked locks,
who has shared every lunch with my son
The artist, who nudged such magical
things from his head,
a head once filled only with letters and numbers.
The mathematician who
hardly seems focused on that most focused of subjects,
instead, speaking poetically about this
young man
The religion teacher, who gave and forgave,
over and
over
again
My husband, who must be struggling,
as I am, to contain his love

And my son.
My
son.
Who is so much more than the two of us.
This complex collection of
everyone
and everything
that has passed before him.

He is especially beautiful on this day, and my
heart is very, very full.