CURL

by Anita Garriott

My son
cradled in the crook
of my arm
as I softly stroke
his light brown hair.

Curled into a snug
position.
So familiar.

His teenage body
is too big to fit
this scene comfortably,
though.

We haven’t lived
this pain
together yet,
my son and I.
Breaking up
with his first girlfriend.

I feel awkward, shy,
having this large male,
son or no,
on my bed.

Comforting him, though,
comes naturally.
The needs of the body
in pain
are the same
at two
twenty-two
or fifty-two.

I say nothing.
Just pat his back,
rub his shoulder,
stroke his hair.
What’s to say?
It’s all been said.

What’s left
is the furnace
that forces its heat
through every crevice
for him
and my sorrow
for him
and for her
and the almost guilty
pleasure of a mother
still able to soothe
a son hurt
curled against her.