We call children carefree,
As we compare
Our worries to their own,
Because they do have worries.
We think, these kids
Do not have to sleep on
Retirement, marriage, lost love.
But may I say that these smaller people
Have preoccupations of their own.
I remember the evening when my mother was gone
And I did not know how to tie a knot.
I had sewn a tiny pillow
Inside out
Stuffed with cotton balls
And I did not know
How to finish it.
She had always done it for me
With a confident hand
Needle in, needle out
In a moment.
And there was a knot,
And with satisfied pride
As if I had done it,
I would look at it.
But that day there were no leathery fingers to pull
The thread in and out
And create that envious lock
Of finality.
And my brothers
Could not understand
My sobbing.