Mother to Son

Mother to Son

As I sit on my porch in the rocking chair that has been there to keep me at ease, I watch my handsome son rolling around in his britches. Playing with his own imagination, a game that I could only guess would be treasure hunting. Holding my gardening shovel and a map that he had found in our backyard, which had only pleasured his fantasy. I had made that treasure map just for him, his name is Eli. Captain Eli that is, who travelled the seven seas and captured other pirates to do his dirty deeds. He has a collection of gold and silver and is the meanest, most scurvy pirate that had ever lived to tell his tale. My son has the most creative mind that I know and when he grows older he will be the most intelligent man around town.

I think about all the possibilities that are in store for his future. I think about him and what lucky girl will have his hand in marriage. When I think of him I think of his father, his father would be proud. His father would make him a better man than I ever could. My husband Simeon had passed away just last winter in Iraq. He had written me letters convincing me of stories and plans while he is away that would help me raise our son while he's gone. He even planned to have him go to university at Harvard, to become the next Harvard man in the family line. I wouldn't be surprised if Eli had decided to enroll, he acts just like his daddy every day, looks just like him too. That crooked smile that told my heart everything was going to be okay, his soft blonde hair that shined like silk and blue eyes that could put the sky to shame. Eli is the spitting image of Simeon.

Last Monday I had come across a poem that made me think more about my son and our life together lately. A poem called "Mother to Son" by a man named Langston Hughes. This man had also died, but long ago. It is now the year 2006 and Mr. Hughes pass'd on in 1967. Somehow, this man's poem was worth discovering. For days after the funeral I was different, I would waste away time by thinking about that awful day when Officer Lee had approached my door and told me of the tragic news. I would always think back and wish that I could have done something different. That I could have kept Simeon here at home with his son and that it would never have happened. Days had turned into weeks, weeks had turned into months and months had turned into almost a year, till last Monday.

This poem was so inane to my weary mind; I could not understand the poem for the life of me when I had first laid my eyes on it. This poem had stuck to my mind though; somehow it had stayed and trickled into my thoughts. I would be working in the garden and every word from that poem had found its way into my voice. I would find myself repeating the verses and thinking deeply of its meaning. When just yesterday, Sunday to be exact, I had figured out what Langston had wanted to imply. I am a mother