Children Coming Home from School

1.

If you live in a city, it’s different: someone has to meet the child at the bus stop. There’s a reason. A child all alone can disappear, get lost, maybe forever.

My sister’s daughter wants to walk home alone; she thinks she’s old

enough.

My sister thinks it’s too soon for such a big change; the best her daughter gets

is the option to walk without holding hands.

That’s what they do; they compromise, which anyone can manage for a few blocks. My niece gets one hand totally free; my sister says

if she’s old enough to walk this way, she’s old enough to hold her own violin.

2.

My son accuses me

of his unhappiness, not

in words, but in the way

he stares at the ground, inching

slowly up the driveway: he knows

I’m watching. That’s why

he greets the cat,

to show he’s capable

of open affection.

My father used

the dog in the same way.

My son and I, we’re the living

experts in silence.

Snow’s sweeping the sky;

it shifts directions, going

first steadily down, then sideways.

3.

One thing you learn, growing up with my sister: you learn that rules don’t mean anything.

Sooner or later, whatever you’re waiting to hear will get itself said. It doesn’t matter what it is: I love you or I’ll never speak to you again. It all gets said, often in the same night.

Then you slip in, you take advantage. There are ways to hold a person to what’s been said; for example, by using the word

promise.

But you have to have patience; you have to be able to wait, to listen.

My niece knows that in time, with intelligence, she’ll get everything she

wants.

It’s not a bad life. Of course, she has those gifts, time and intelligence.

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