Five

His little foot rests on my knee,
just a little continuous contact. He watches
for a hummingbird.
He is like a hummingbird, vigilant, eyes focused on the flowers.
I bought him a backpack for kindergarten. He chose a shape to be embroidered on the outside pocket. The rocketship, he said. What about this cute little dog? I asked.
I don't want the cute little dog because it will make me think of you, he said.
I pick him up and hold him for what seems like an hour. I will miss you, he says. I don't like camp because I miss you when I'm there.
I put kisses on his soft cheek, a baby cheek. Block out the idea that he'll ever be a tall boy who doesn't want his cheek kissed by his mama.
I love being with you, too, I say. He turned five the other day, five,
I hung streamers
we bought a cake.
five.
Out of early childhood
no longer the most vulnerable.
He can do so much without me now.
I stayed up with him his birthday night, next to his knee, not wanting the day to end, holding tight to the rotation of the earth, the speeding planet the sun flying away us slipping out of our
last light