When I took you to monkey bars
for the first time at three,
I carried the weight of your legs
on my shoulders.
Your tiny hands shook
as they formed a quarter moon around the chunky poles.
You shrieked, Mama, don’t let go!
I got you, baby, I replied.
Today on the monkey bars I stood from a distance,
reassurances tucked in my pocket for good measure
as the quarter moon turned full.
You turned around
to say, It’s okay, Mama.
You can let go.
So I simply watched
as your nimble nine-year old legs
swung in the wind
like a pendulum
moving time
forward.
This was first published in Asam/Garam on April 1, 2023.
