Through a Glass

On the crown of his head where the fontanelle pulsed between spongy bones, a bald spot is forming, globed and sleek as a monk’s tonsure. I was the earliest pinch of civilization, the one who laced him into shoe leather when he stumbled into walking upright. “Shoes are unfair to children,” he’d grouse. Through a pane of glass that shivers when the wind kicks up I watch my son walk away. He’s out the door, up the street, around a couple of corners by now. I’m in for life. He trips; my hand flies out; I yank it back.