Separation from a Small Son

Micah and I spend many happy hours with Ted and his basement. We have little choice about living in the everyday and too literal world of 1RS and shots for all the childhood diseases. Last August, returning from a trip to the Health Department for boosters necessary before entering kindergarten, his mother commented on what a little gentleman he had been. Bumping against my knee to get my attention, Micah came right in my face and whispered: "Grandmother, I didn't cry, but Ted screamed and screamed!" So, you see, we really do need Ted, and it would be criminal to pen him up by limiting his basement to any one place. We'd rather think that he can live just beyond the nearest snowbank or up on the mountain where he can keep an eye on the valley and be the hero of as many tales as a boy—or a poet—can imagine. Separation from a Small Son I leave you standing, hand-held by an ancient woman, leading you gently to a bird basin where you learn all I would have you to be. You cry at leaving me behind, your other, empty hand clutching the air at my release. I cannot resist a final squeeze of tiny, drooped shoulders, nor a kiss of departure for which possible occasion I have trimmed back the line of my lip, the once proudly neglected mustache growing raucously without regard for cheek. Now I would have nothing between you and me that could not end with our kissing, seeing together, wading grass for the return of birds that need our hands. I would let you go for that alone, to walk among things with the air between us drawing breath for the kiss of our return. -Edward Francisco Hunger (for my Grandfather) A gallon jug of homebrew has soured in the cobwebs under the ancient bed. A banjo lies busted in the loft. Late at night he leaves the tomb and returns to a shattered world, humming Wildwood Flower— cherries falling in the rain. "Seems like it's all been a dream," he whispered. And was gone. Who can say what he embraced? Mother stood alone beside his plot of ground, calling down one miraculous rose, waiting in the charity of her silence for the blossom to fall. Who can say? Even now he crosses the fields, singing to himself an anonymous world in repose. -Kevin Hull ...