Brand new today, from one of Graham's poetry assignments for school:

He Doesn't Know

He doesn't know

that every morning,

when he leaves for school

I go to the back window

to watch him retrieve his bike,

carefully pull down the awkward door

and with that swaying, heavy pack, mount

and ride toward school.

He doesn't know

I hurry to the front

and watch him (my heart in hand)

fly into the street

without looking

visibly left or right (me, gripping the sill)

'til he flies

across the grass on the other side

leaving a thin trace

that remains long

after he is out of sight.

He never guesses

How much I long to hold him

the way I did when he was young,

to smooth his hair,

to kiss his freckled cheek,

to circle my arm around his shoulders.

He doesn't know

How hard it is to refrain,

now that he's too old

for the foolishness of mother love,

from waving and calling goodbye,

or worse yet, blowing kisses,

or if he does,

he keeps it quietly to himself

and goes on growing

older.

Mary Taitt

For Graham

070522, 1^st draft 5-22-0