Across the Field
by Katherine Arthaud

Rice High School Incoming Freshmen Orientation; For My Son

For years, I held your body close to my body.
For years, you could not get close enough.
For years, it was this way.
For years, I was your god.
For years, it was this way.
Today, you have touched your sneakered toe to the shining silver escalator
that I can see will take you, take you
far from the shining way it’s been—the summers on the lawn, the picnics by the lake,
the bicycles, and boats, the riding to and fro, with me, vigilant always
at the helm of everything.
Oh.
To do it all again...but really,
I am too exhausted, if you want to know the truth.
You see it, too.
You look down now into my eyes.
You do not ask me to lift you any more.
You reach things by yourself.
And you can lift me, and take me through the door...
We laugh about it, but:
You are stronger. I am weaker.
You will outlive me.
This is a good thing.
But, oh.
The bank is slippery. The field is slim. The silver stairs are fast
and magic.
The world is ripening.
Take my arm.
Spring forth.
You will think I am here, but I will be there.
You will think I will not see you, but I will see you.
You will think we are not, but we are.
You will think we are, but we will not be.
I was your eyes.
Soon you will be captain.
This is the way that it is.
This is the way that it is.
Forgive me the strange look in my eye, as I delve
beyond what you, bent over the glossy brochure, present
to us to see.
I am just looking for the bones and the light,
for what was true before; back, or buried, or far, or woven like silk
into the sun of who you are.