for Scott
There in the lobby of the shipping store
was the man who for years
measured my son and weighed
my son and checked his lungs, his tongue,
his vision, made sure his knees
swung out when hit with a mallet.
Standing between pallets of cardboard
and the counter piled with tape,
I didn’t mean to blurt out, My son is dead.
Hours later, I wonder if I could have
spared him this blade of truth.
Mostly, I wanted to thank him,
his efforts of the past somehow
even more precious now.
I wanted him to know it matters,
the care he gave. It matters
that he, too, did his best to help the boy
grow strong. It matters, his kindness.
How he helped us feel at ease.
It matters that I have this now:
the memory of a sapling boy
in a thin blue gown sitting tall,
shoulders back, on the edge
of an exam table, looking this man
in the eye with such seriousness,
breathing in, breathing out
as deeply as he can.