my precious son.
He can still a storm in me
with his sweet smile,
melt the iron in my chest
with his curious look.
When he holds my gaze,
the restless drive in me,
and the endless urgency
to do, to achieve, to succeed—
are quashed.
I am stripped bare,
the story and drama of my life rendered meaningless
in the face of his sacred capacity to be,
far more valuable than my capacity to do.
There’s an old light in his eyes—
he sees it all:
the wrestling shadows in me,
the small, invisible battles
in others.
And in that smile—
a benediction.
The permission to drop the sword,
to unclench the will,
to sink back
into the soft current of now.
No past. No plan.
Only this pulse between us,
the raw presence
of being alive,
breathing,
both of us
pregnant with life.
He looks—
and heals.
His wonder,
as he stimmies,
carves a path through me,
as clean and sure
as sunlight through mist.
A sunflower opening.
Raindrops on the pond.
The silver threads in my beard
his small hand strokes
to call down sleep.
Oskar knows.
Oskar sees.
And through him I remember—
how to look,
how to feel,
how to live inside the marrow of things,
before thought cages them.
Oskar,
my boy,
my mirror,
my guide.