They Call This
by C.K. Williams
A
young mother on a motor scooter stopped at a traffic light, her little
son perched on the ledge between her legs; she in a gleaming helmet, he
in a replica of it, smaller, but the same color and just as shiny. His
visor is swung shut, hers is open.
As I pull up beside them on my bike, the mother is leaning over to
embrace the child, whispering something in his ear, and I'm shaken,
truly shaken, by the wish, the need, to have those slim strong arms
contain me in their sanctuary of affection.
Though they call this regression, though that implies a going back to some other
state and this has never left me, this fundamental pang of being too
soon torn from a bliss that promises more bliss, no matter that the
scooter's fenders are dented, nor that as it idles it pops, clears its
throat, growls.
So, here's the thing. Up until "to have those slim strong arms contain me," I was wrapped up in the mother-child love of the moment, being, for that second, the mom and reveling in the heart-fullness of that physical and spiritual closeness with my child, of seeing the world through his eyes, of showing, protecting, sharing, and learning from him. I felt my arms again encircling him, his warmth and pure innocence, and I felt happiness for this young mother and her little boy. So when I read the rest of the poem, it was like being suddenly wakened from a sweet dream. All of a sudden, here I was in a new reality, so different from my own, so much sharper, colder, harsher. Williams's focus was not with the parent but with the child. It made me wonder whether his mother had died or left when he was young, so I looked him up. While I couldn't find a detailed account of his childhood, it seems that, no she didn't. But the title of his autobiography, Misgivings: My Mother, My Father, Myself, speaks volumes, doesn't it?
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