I like the way he leans over the paper,
the way he pulls the black ink
across the page, the matter-of-fact way
he says, “Like this, Mom,
only you don’t have to be afraid
to make mistakes. They usually turn out.”
I want to tell him
his life is like these trees—
that no matter how much
he thinks he’s messed up,
there is no blotch or line
that cannot be transformed
into an opportunity.
Instead, I say, “Show me
what to do next,”
and he shows me how
to shade the sides
with small quick strokes,
the dark lines holding
so much light.