Thursday, May 21, 2015

My Son Reads A Poem



I feel like a queen mother. My son, 10, is reading the last stanza of a poem written for his school's Memorial Day celebration. He has it memorized. He's got this. He's all that -- a reciter of poetry -- and a bag of chips with a side of chicken-product nuggets, which are his favorite food (a mother weeps) and the wearer of hair gel, with a nascent interest in deodorant "for my pits, Mom."

My question is, What should a queen mother wear? I have a bureau full of mom jeans, and yoke-necked t-shirts, and not a scrap appropriate for My Son Reads A Poem. Where is my all-feather ball gown? Where is my gilded shrug?

This -- the public reading of a poem -- is a rite of passage. Babies don't recite poems, they babble, therefore my son is no longer a baby. He's seeking the pale enchanted gold of the 4th grade. 

I'm capturing my proud and nervous (will my hambone recite it cowboy style?) queen mother tears in the old embroidered linen hanky I found in my great-grandmother's seed-pearl-beaded purse called a reticule that I inherited, and my dad said she had him reciting long passages of Shakespeare by the time he was twelve. 

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