Saturday, April 16, 2011


From the beginning

your hands moved with the instinct

of the second born son,

first banging on me from the inside,

so I wouldn't forget you were coming.

Then reaching out in welcome,

like happy baseball mitts, clapping.

Or balled up into fists,

pushing hard against me,

while simultaneously


on sleeping right beside me.

Your hands took no prisoners,

even in peekaboo,

but always pointed just in time

to the full blue pools of your eyes,

or the perfect curve of your dimples--

smart hands!

And they felt so right

resting in mine,

but too often I had to drag them from behind--

the plight of the second child:

never enough sleep,

never enough time.

But now your grown hands strum your guitar,

and I can't remember the last time

your hands reached

for me.

But I want you to know

that you have always had me

head over heels,

out of my mind

in love.

My hands

will always miss yours

wanting mine.


  1. Perfect, just perfect. This will play on my heart strings all day long.

  2. What a beautiful poem, Erin. The ending ties it up so nicely.


  3. I know of what you speak, Erin . . . so beautiful!

  4. Erin, this is lovely. I think you captured him well; I thought of my second son through the whole thing. It was as if you wrote it about him - and predicted his future.

  5. you.
    Flaubert-glad you think so. It's so hard to write a poem about one's kid that isn't over the top sappy.
    Kathleen--I know you do. xoxo
    Mr. Walker--thank you. That is a wonderful compliment!

  6. I love the way you write about your kids. This is beautiful.