To Think About

Yesterday I read this poem to my son. It's one I wrote not long ago. At first, I thought I wouldn't ever show it to him or read it to him. I thought it might offend him or elicit strong denials. It did neither. We talked about it and he made no denial. We said a lot of things. A good conversation.

Of course, a poem is brief, a capsule. Enough said. Here it is.

First Child

Carol Schiess

Fifty-one years old and

not quite over the shock

of learning you were not

the whole world

to your parents.

For two years you were

exactly that. Then

one quiet April day

changed everything for you. 

Suddenly, you were

one of two,

now a part of their world,

a treasured part,

but you did not

seem to know that.

Eventually, you were

one among . . .

only one,

you poor boy,

among seven,

which seven became, yes,

their whole world.

It has been a bitter pill

and I do not know

when

you will actually

swallow all of it.

I try to understand,

my son, my dear son, but  

I was never first,

you know.

The fourth child

always has to share.