Evanescence

Kathleen Cox Richardson

Evanescence
	

I saw my son today.
Golden curls; baby blues, bright, shining.
Soggy cookie squeezed through chubby fingers.
I laughed a happy laugh.
He laughed back, a gurgly little baby laugh.

I saw my son today.
Short cut, sun-streaked hair; focused blues.
Soccer ball held tight in strong tanned hands.
I smiled a proud smile.
He smiled a wide ten-year-old grin.

I saw my son today.
Uncut, grease-streaked hair; glassy blues.
Cigarette clinched in yellow-stained fingers.
I whispered, ?Please, take care.?
He returned a narrow teenage sneer.

I saw my son today.
Blood-matted, gravelly hair; lifeless half-lidded blues.
IV punctured hand.
I mouthed, Goodbye, I love you.?
He breathed a sucking, rhythmic sound.

I saw my son today.
Hair combed, neatly trimmed; eyes tightly shut.
Prayer book cradled in waxen hands.
I cried quietly.
He smiled, a fixed still smile