Set in Stone
By Kevin Carey
A rosary that was my mother's
tucked in the glove compartment of his car
and a copy of Exile on Main Street
with instructions to play track 6
when he hit some lonesome desert highway.
I love him so much my chest hurts,
thinking of him riding off into his own life,
me the weeping shadow left behind (for now).
I know I'll see him again but it’s ceremony
we're talking about after all—
one growing up and one growing older
both wild curses.
A train blows its horn
the light rising beyond the harbor,
a dog barks from a car window
and the nostalgia (always dangerous)
hits me like a left hook.
I'm trapped between the memory
and the moment,
the deal we make
if we make it this long,
the markers of a life,
the small worthwhile pieces
that rattle around in my pockets
waiting to be set somewhere in stone.
"Not so long ago, my oldest child left home to drive across the country to live," Carey told Poets.org. "I was treating this moment as a ceremony (for both of us) and trying to protect him on his journey with my own invented or inherited rituals...I was stuck with the memory of his childhood."
Quickie because we were Skyping Daniel a day late for his birthday, since he was at game night and having cake with friends. My day was not exciting enough for much reporting anyway; it was hot, I did chores, I took a walk, I took Maddy to work so she wouldn't have to walk in the heat.
We had chick pea and peanut stew, then watched Inspector Morse -- a fairly sexist episode, ugh -- then, since we had an hour to kill before the so-so season premiere of Designated Survivor, we watched the SEAL Team premiere, which features a far better cast than script.