And you shall teach [these words] to your children to speak with them . . .
The list of what I have to teach my son keeps getting longer.
It started with brushing his teeth – not how to do it, but
remembering to do it. We moved on to trying new things
though green vegetables are still a struggle. I’d like to
describe the look on his face when I point to the kale
and say it’s not that bad, but there isn’t enough space.
Enough years have gone by that we’ve moved on to
the car is too far to the right, try to learn where
the middle of the lane is. We’re spending weeks on
which way to turn the wheel when backing up.
Money management is coming soon, but a friend of
mine in another poem spoke about going to the forest
and stuffing cash in the tree stumps for the animals.
I’ve always wanted to send all the deer to college
but I hope when it comes to my son’s bank account
I’ll have more sensible things to say.
And then there’s these words from this old text written by,
well, you prove to me who wrote these words.
These words which distinguish us, but don’t make us better.
Remember, son, these words, just tell us who we are.
Other people are other things and that’s okay.
It’s more than okay. I say these words to you diligently.
Because they were said to me, and they were said
to the people who said them to me, and so on all the way
back to when these words first came down the mountain.
I hope you’ll pass them on to whomever you make.
It’s your task, now, to listen and to teach and to do.
This is the chain, I will never break.