when I drop him off at school.
One of those cold wet days
and the temperature dropping.
He seems to be staring at the rain
but maybe not.
Fortunately, he doesn’t ask
where it comes from.
I have no proof
that behind this world there is
another, steady and silent.
He unbuckles and looks around
for hat, gloves, books, lunch.
At six, he juggles four objects,
though now, Where’s the other glove?
The other parents are there.
Some hold a small hand like string
tied to a balloon. Others stand
with umbrellas, or reach to hold a door.
They watch as their children disappear
into the school. The balloon a dot in the sky.
The windshield wipers brush the glass.
The wet road and the engine hum.
My son pushes the door, and for an instant
morning light cracks the shell of the car.
I don’t know if the other parents let go.
If they say something that means, Go, join the others.
Or, Find a way to love your life.
I said, I love you, I’ll see you later.
And by the time I got home
there was a change.
Snow was coming down.
Falling through the body of the world.