Opening Night
(for my son, written while I was in Europe)
A thousand eyes
watched you turn beneath the lights.
In my mind's eye I see your shoulders roll and twist,
your eyes quiz and mist. Your chin tightens.
I can hear them laugh,
their open mouths in O's
lips dark under dimmed house lights.
You can see vague outlines
in the orchestra seats.
Did you look for me
in the first row? Did someone else
wait outside the wings with
flowers for you, this opening night?
On the other side of night
it's early morning. I cannot sleep.
I sit and marvel at this wonder-
you animate the stage, you create
and recreate a life
without me watching.
I, who watched your every act
from birth to walking,
now boy become a man.
You play another scene, a different crowd.
Through the silence of six thousand miles
I hear the applause.
I would shout--"That's my son!"
But I am dumb in the stillness.
Without a sound, I weep, smiling.
(Published in Mom Writer’s Literary Journal, Summer, 2007)
