My son, merely five, plays in innocence
fearing not the bad guys,
cause good guys always win.
My eyes, time and again, seeking
beyond concrete and parked cars,
searching shadows for slithery things.
The sunlight dances in his hair
small legs pump, tires spin,
whirling wings for tiny feet.
There was a time, when I was small
a mother did not stop breathing,
if silence grew past a heartbeat.
A child could grow in the sunshine
rather than droop and wither,
in the shadow of a mother's fear.
Or maybe, I was too young
to know or see,
my mother's fear.
By: Graci