Mom, he says, what’s déjà vu?
The tone of his voice tells me
he’s worried about how I will answer.
I tell him, It’s when you think
you’ve experienced a moment before
when in fact the situation is new.
Oh, he says. Well, my friend
who’s parents are doctors
says he thinks that when
I fell off the top bunk last night
and landed on the concrete floor
I got the déjà vu. And Mom,
he’s going to be a doctor, too.
My son knits his fingers into knots
as he speaks. He looks fragile,
a bird with a broken wing.
I try hard not to laugh,
but not hard enough,
and the laughter spills
between us. You don’t have to worry,
I tell him. He is not convinced.
But Mom, he says, He told me
that was why I could fall on my head,
but it is my leg that hurts. And
he told me that’s why I might do
stupid things even if I’m really smart.
I take my son’s worry to heart. It feels familiar,
like an alley I’ve walked in before,
like a familiar room, like a voice
I have heard, like a remembered door.
My darling, I tell him, you’re fine.
And somewhere, perhaps,
in my rhinal nervous system,
a dysfunctional electric discharge
is sending a message to tell me
I’ve said this to him before.
You’re fine, I say, and unknit his hands.
Are you sure mom? he says,
knots his fingers again.
I think I’m the one with déjà vu,
I tell him. He stares hard at me,
concerned for us all.