Doghouse

The end...for now...

I wrote this poem when Adam was 5. It is instructive and appropriate at this time to reprint.

My only notes are that when it comes to "the apple" it really is none of their (kids) damned mess. It is adults who make such messes and bear the burden of them (eventually). I hope better for my kids and knowing them as I do I feel they will be fine.

I met with my good friend and pastor today. He worries about my becoming embittered and he also has this crazy notion that faith, love and hope really matter in a world dominated by fear, violence and the abuse of power.

I cannot say that I disagree with him. In fact, he has encouraged me to walk away for a season and I am going to do so. He does not disagree about the facts pertaining to these issues...he simply is urging wisdom which moves beyond the facts.

My roomate agrees with this and I trust her counsel as well. So I leave you with this poem written for my beloved Son Adam when he was 5. He has grown into these words far beyond what I might have hoped, as have all my sons and what I have wanted.

The Lunchbox....

The house stories down to nothing
Only the chores remain
The lingering obligations left open like
The empty lunchbox.

With a snap
The clasp is undone
Spilling out the remains
Of our separate days
Cracker bits and cellophane
A darkened rind
The reddened stain
Around the thermos rim
Empty
Yet still
Begging for tommorow.

Comes the parental sigh
Then breath again
A new breath
And the box is rinsed out
With a mild soapy water
And tamped-down ready
For tommorow.

Then comes the fun,
The kind all too easy to miss:
The dragging smear of chunky buttered nuts
Across the 12 grain bread
The cheap gelatinous
Grape jelly
Dropped down thick
Like bulbous concord lakes dropped down
Onto spongy wheatfields that
Only the knify wind
Can turn to glaze.
And the long stick of string cheese
Like a treasure
A full comfort stapled to your ribs.

But after all
You'll still be hungry
So you have that apple.
Adults make so much of the apple
Sometimes dear one
An apple is just
The best blessed fruit God ever invented
And no more.
Don't let anyone tell you
The apple's to blame for any of
Their damned mess.

The apple is the best
Don't forget that.

Then every day's box
Brings your "special deal"
And the deal comes from us
Us who love you
And this last little item
Is personal
So your Mom would never give you
The same thing I would
It's a subjective thing
And you're the
Subject of
Each special deal with you.

So, I'd like my special deals
In the lunchbox
Most everyday
I know what ya need
But your mom's got to get
Her two mitts in too
So you gotta take what ya get
With the special deal.

As for me
I'd give you a dark
Hershey bar
One of those flat bricked ones
Cut in half
Each day.

You gotta admit
There's something pure about
That bar.
And only so much you can
Take in each day.

So tommorow
When you open the lunchbox
And you make your way through
The peanut-jelly gorge
And strip down the cheese
And crimp around your apple
Don't forget that
We are there with you

Your mom and I
We're in the bread
We're in the grape
And we smiled for you
As we picked out the jars
And singled out the cheeses
And we delight as your sweet mouth
Hits that first frail
Panel of chocolate.

Your lunchbox.

posted by Obi-Mac BakDon @ 5:50 PM