From the Mouths of Babes

My son won't sleep at my parents' house anymore.
In a way, it pains me to say I get it.
But I do.
I get it.

He's reached a different age--
no longer innocent in the way a child is
when kissed on the mouth
first thing in the morning,
rubbing noses,
wide open--
not at all appalled by the scent of sleep;
the ill-effect it has on the breath.

There's an age when that goes unnoticed.

He's reached a different age,
says what he means,
digs a little deeper.
He's learned to read between the lines--
sees truths we've tried to keep
from him.

Like a police dog, he smells it.

It's just as well, I guess,

for him to know.

But still, it hurts.
It does.

To think the bed I slept in all my life,
the four walls it rests within,
aren't safe enough for him.

They weren't for me, either.
But, I had no place else.

So, I bit my lip,
clenched my fists,
squeezed into the fetal position.

When the screaming at night was too hard to listen to,
I did what I had to do--
always did.

For him,
there's another way--
the freedom to say no,
the awareness he has.
He knows.

When he's there alone,
my protective force field no longer over him,
the pain bleeds from the walls.
It bleeds from the walls.

He says it's the stuff on the floor
piled up,
the uncomfortable bed.
Though, I know better.

And, I'm glad for him,
that he's safe here.
With me.

Safe enough to say what he thinks--
what he means.

Safe enough to sleep,
sprawled out across his bed,
arms and hands, open wide,
each finger, outspread.
Not tight--
fighting for his very life.

I'm happy for him.

So, I guess in a way,
this poem's for him,
to know,
it's alright to speak his mind.
I won't turn a blind eye--
turn my back
to him.

He'll find me here
with love and kindness.

I get it.

-Jayme