Eight

For Guy

I sang you to sleep tonight,

the same songs I used to sing

in the days and weeks

when we were first mother and son.

As I sang, the memories flooded back:

singing for so long I no longer knew

which verse came next,

whether I was singing backwards or forwards,

who would fall asleep first – you or me.

How attuned I was to your waking – and, later,

how attuned you became to mine,

so that I couldn’t stir in the morning

without you mirroring my wakefulness

from your own bed.

Some things haven’t changed much.

I thought of your feet, remembered

the picture of your whole foot

lined up with my big toe, a perfect match.

Of your hands, how one tiny fist

stretched to curl around a single finger,

holding fast.

Now your fingers twine easily with mine,

pulsing in our secret language

as we walk down the road,

cross the street, and head to the park:

Three squeezes for I love you, 

Four: I love you, too.