A Good Kind of Soon, My Son


by Hannah Cole Orsag


 

In a corner bedroom painted apple green

I found myself

rearranging river rocks on the shelf in pairs

as flares like the rivulets of an angry stream

lit by moonbeam heralded

thick thunder, which roiled

and quaked the house. My fingers

in my ear canals could not stop tremors

from flinching my shoulders into their cower,

shaking sleep from my limbs, and in the quiet

dark, I was afraid of summer.

 

As I am still

 

A not-as-small-as-he-once-was child shudders

inside under my ribs, wanting release. Foothills

of limbs roll and jab as I wonder whose

your nose is and what constellations of freckles

might array themselves on new skin.

But, in order to know you, my son, I must go

through pain, pain that empowers, others

say. I imagine it a little

like hiding in piles of stuffed

animals and holding back the thunder while it burns

around you. But, at some point you let it

in. This pain

 

leads to life, and I am

still scared.

 

You are half of me and all yourself, and I worry

you will fear the dark. Oh, that I could lighten

the way for you, stand in the riverbed

to collect debris. I must learn to walk

beside you, your father’s arms the other bank

as you wind your way from me to Elsewhere.

 


Hannah Cole Orsag is a writer, editor, and dramaturg currently residing in Toronto, Ontario. She deeply loves discussing narrative and storytelling in all forms. Her work has appeared in Lee Review, Sun & Sandstone and interview blog Speaking of Marvels. Find her on Twitter @hannahorsag and at https://leavesoflorien.weebly.com.