6/30: Springtime on a Sunday in Houston
Your mama tells me she used to feed the ducks
at Hermann Park with her mama, your grandma.
The oak tree where I kissed my-soon-to-be-wife
during our engagement photoshoot is still standing,
branches bending below, almost touching the earth.
Everyone is outside. Kisses exchanged at crosswalks
and sidewalks. I feel joy in every stop you take. The train
passes by and we wave. Your voice is music to the birds.
You want to walk everywhere. Even when your steps
turn into a stumble, you stand tall. Me and the sky,
both in awe. We forgot your sweater today, and when
the sun stands behind the shadow, your mother would
hold you close to keep you warm. I put my hoodie on your legs.
Halle and Luis join the adventure, our neighbors-turned-friends
take pictures of us as a family on a Spring Sunday in Houston,
a memory to memorialize this time. Time passes by and Mama and I
hold you, sometimes together, sometimes apart. My favorite part
of the day is when you and mama rode the carousel. I stand in the audience,
and watch your face spin with joy each time you pass us by.
Mama laughs and holds you close, and the carousel feels like time itself,
with each passing second telling me what the last second meant,
and what the next second could mean. Next time, we’ll feed the ducks together,
with mama holding the bread, like she used to do, all of us together.
A POEM A DAY 