Falling

Last year,
you watched me skate
in my hiking shoes
on the sidewalk ice.

It was midnight
and you laughed outloud,
uncool as that is
for a sixteen-year-old man.

With a wide grin,
you grabbed my hand
and danced in the frozen grass
at my side.

Your strength
kept this fortyfive-year-old
from falling.

Pride sparkled in your eyes
when you said
that I would always
be a teenager
that I would always
keep the magic
for you, your sister and me.

A few weeks later,
my hard-won residency was gone.
I cried and you held me.

You held my hand
with stricken pride in your eyes.
You watched
as I quickly aged,
as I lost balance
and kept me from falling -
for a time.

Sometimes, magic horrifies,
madness overwhelms -
for awhile,
if not forever.

Insanity in Mom
is unbearable,
I guess.

The day before you left,
we walked by the frozen river.
The ice whispered
ineffectual incantations -
words in soft, icy birdsong
to keep you here.

Now you're gone.

And here I am,
with an empty pot of magic
and no one left
to keep me from falling.

Kathleen Hover
01/06/02