Tuesday, March 20, 2012

Son

By Vicki Wilson

There will be a last time that I carry you,
and I won't know it.
There will be no celebration,
no certificate,
as when you were born,
just the offhand thought:
He sure has gotten big.
And when I set you down,
on your own two feet,
I'll think nothing of it.


Previously published in Literary Mama, March 3, 2012

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