It starts as tag. The instructor
tapes off a strip in the room—
the piste—and my son and I,
confined by the long bounds,
chase and reach for each other.
But the person who’s it
keeps changing. “Left,”
says the teacher, and I am it.
I lunge for my son’s arm, and
“Right,” says the teacher, and
I retreat as fast as I can,
my son now charging for me.
“Left.” “Right.” “Left.” “Right.”
We learn quickly to hold
our weight low, to keep
one foot forward, to allow
distance enough to tag
and not enough that we might
be tagged back.
The game is familiar. I flush
with young joy. Later
we learn to extend
our arms before we lunge,
to advance, to retreat,
to allow just the right distance
to strike, to not be struck.
The instructor gives us
a string to hold between us—
our goal is to keep the curve in it,
not to let it go too slack, too taught.
My son and I dance
forward and back, keeping
step with each other.
both of us smiling, both of us
serious as steel. When it’s done,
we shake what would be
our ungloved hands.
We have learned just enough
to know there’s so much more
to learn. As we leave, I feel
it still between us,
an invisible string, linking us
in this odd game of love,
the world our piste,
one hand always ready to battle,
the other hand, ever vulnerable,
ready to open, to reach,
to meet the other
with devastatingly effective
tenderness.
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