My son carries the name
of the healing archangel. He
sits on my lap, at the computer’s
luminous screen. We look at photos
of my parents, divorced
when I was two. Their faces
sagging, eyes hopeful.
Still alive, but their visits to us
number less than a handful
in his five-year-old life.
Sometimes, after brushing our teeth
he’ll say, “Mom, make it like a river.”
And I’ll cup my palms together
under running water, and he’ll drink.
Tonight as we sit together
I’m silent, because it’s hard to explain.
He asks,” “Do you still love them?”
So gently, so gently.