Into the arena

 To the heart ....was it ever less than treason ... 

to bow and accept 

the end of love or a season? --Robert Frost

On our routine walk across the grass

to his first grade room, my boy lets 

my hand go.

You need not hold my hand anymore, 

he says, abashed.  

My gulp, the noise my heart makes,

all squeeze into a smile.  

And before long,  the boy instructs, 

Don't walk me from the car.  

I can go myself.  

His voice still small but dense with volition, 

a fresh-born will, still damp from its placenta, 

but unshakable

So I swallow and watch with pride--

and it is genuine--

this boy run across the grass,

fast on pup's legs, 

without expertise of any kind, 

and alone, still a stranger 

to the world.

Then one day comes the text:

Do not pick me up from school.  

I will walk home.

Now it all looks clear. 

He is suited up, almost free 

from my love--his oppressor.