By Rachel Hadas
When my son was a few weeks old,
replicas of his yawning face appeared
suddenly on drowsy passersby:
middle-aged man’s gape that split his beard,
old woman on a bus, a little girl—
all told a story that I recognized.
Now he is fifteen.
As my students shuffle in the door
of the classroom, any of the boys
could easily be him—
foot-dragging, also swaggering a little,
braving the perils of a public space
by moving in a wary little troop.
But the same sleepy eyes, the same soft face.
We recognize the people whom we love,
or love what we respond to as our own,
trusting that one day someone
will look at us with recognition.
Maddy left the house insanely early on Tuesday to go visit a friend, so I did not get enough sleep, and between that, allergies, and a sinus headache from the weather front coming in, I am woozy. I am also finally caught up with my photos, at least, and only moderately behind on correspondence. I'm not even close with laundry, though, since she left every towel in the house to be washed!
Because it was warm out and may snow by the weekend, Paul and I went to walk at Great Falls before the rain arrived. We stopped at Vie de France for bread on the way home and after dinner we caught up on Elementary and Billions around The Flash, which suffered by comparison -- no gorillas this week, but many puerile relationship decisions and too much exposition!