Sharon Olds writes about her son's rush to grow up . . .
Size and Sheer Will
by: Sharon Olds
The fine, green pajama cotton,
washed so often it is paper-thin and
iridescent, has split like a sheath
and the glossy white naked bulbs of
our son's toes thrust forth like crocus
this early Spring. The boy is growing
as fast as he can, elongated
wrist dangled, lean meat
showing between the shirt and the belt.
If there were a rack to stretch himself, he would
strap his slight body to it.
If there were a machine to enter,
skip the next ten years and be
sixteen immediately, this boy would
do it. All day long, he cranes his
neck, like a plant in the dark with a single
light above it, or a sailor under
tons of green water, longing
for the surface, for his rightful life.
Olds touches upon one of the great mysteries of being a kid: that insatiable hunger to be an adult. Her son wants to hop in the DeLorean and travel to his sixteenth year. No passing "Go." No collecting your $200.
Now well into my adulthood (my son says I'm ancient), I still don't understand young people rushing to join the "real" world. If they haven't looked around recently, the real world kinda sucks. Why would you give up curfews and homework and summer recess for taxes and colonoscopies and timeclocks? It's not really a good trade.
I'm with Peter Pan on this one. If I could purchase a condo in Neverland, I would. I don't want to pay to get the brakes on my car fixed. Just sprinkle some of Tink's pixie dust on me, and let me soar around Big Ben. Sure, kids have their own brands of hardship, and sometimes adult problems impinge on the boundaries of Neverland, but, overall, kidding is a lot more fun than adulting. Adulting sucks.
Sure, I can stay up as late as I want. Drink alcohol to excess legally. Smoke weed until the neighborhood smells like a skunk sanctuary. But I still have to get up in the morning and go to work for eight or nine or ten hours in order to pay the mortgage and put gas in my car. Remember those dinners that miraculously appeared on the table when you got home? You have to cook those dinners yourself now. And set the table. And wash the dishes.
I think you're seeing my point now. Hold onto your inner child as long as you can. You'll have plenty of time to practice for death later.
Saint Marty wrote a poem inspired by Peter Pan for tonight, based on the following prompt from The Daily Poet:
Begin writing a poem about your shadow, but don't stop there. Describe the shadows of what you see around you: robins, sheds, skyscrapers, park benches, soda pop cans. If you want, take it a step farther, describing the shadow your father casts upon you or your shadow self.
Hide and Seek
by: Martin Achatz
I once lost my shadow
when I was a kid.
One second, it was
hot on my heels
as I ran down
an alley, the next,
it had vanished
like a snowflake
on an eyelash.
I searched for days,
under maple
canopies, in closets.
I opened cupboards,
crammed my face
into the darkest
places I could
find, thinking
shadow called
to shadow.
I even looked
in my dad's
underwear drawer
because I knew
he kept his shadow
in there at night,
folded like a pair
of socks beside
his Fruit of the Looms.
My shadow was
nowhere to be
found. I'd almost
given up
when my mother
handed me my
laundry to be put
away, and there
it was, washed,
ironed, and dark.
The afternoon sun
was still bright,
so my shadow
and I went
to the beach together,
waded the shallows
where phantoms
of minnows
swarmed, nibbled
our toes.
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| Art by Kristina Craig |
