Bus Boy

By: Victoria G. Smith

“I’ll be fine, Mom,” he said, this little son of mine,
to persuade me to let him ride the school bus.
All these years, I’ve been his chauffeur,
and now he wants to let me go.
If only I could let go.
My mind surveys scenes of him without me.
My heart races to shield him from would-be bullies.
Visions of school buses throwing off their precious
cargo fill me with dread, let alone, hostage
dramas staged off of Innocents’Mile.
My rational mind warns me against paranoia,
only to be haunted by other worries—
I can’t bear to think of the possibilities.
Yet there he nonchalantly stands:
Smiling at me with reassuring smile
of one seemingly strong and wise.
and perhaps he is—as only the young are.
As only the pure-hearted can be.
Though he’s only eight to my forty-three,
he can twist my heart into Boy Scout knots
around his little fingers.
And I sigh, resigning myself
to the fate of all mothers:
We can’t keep what we hold only in trust.
Birthing, alas, is a long umbilical cord
of goodbyes

Poet’s Notes: This month, my youngest child—my bunso, as we call such in Filipino—graduates from high school. He doesn’t want me to give him a graduation party, being the humble and modest person he is. He says he’ll feel “weird” having a party just for him. I am trying my best to be okay with this as my husband reminds me it’s not about my feelings but our son’s that matter here. I suppose this is yet again one of those “letting go” moments, when I, as a mother, have to respect my child’s wishes for himself, much like what the poem above both laments and celebrates. It’s a good thing this poetry column is entirely mine—for here, I have the absolute right and freedom to celebrate my son, at least, with this poem.