Little Boy

When a son grows up he leaves home.  There is a slow soaring pan to a startling wide view of endless weather.  Leaf rustling like the handclapping of babies heard by soldiers entering Poland.  A ghost coming up the drive in September before the shadow of a cloud erases it.  As on a clear summer morning in Japan when a sample of every element vanished and a woman looking out saw her son flash pallid white and turn into glass.  My one and only child, I still hear him return from school and say I’m home.