BASKETBALL ESCAPE

“Mommy, what time is it when the big hand is on the twelve and the small hand is on the three?”
“Well, that’s the time children, just a little older than you, are finished with school.”
“I’m never going to school.”
“Why is that?”
“I just like to stay home with you.”
… And when the big hand on the twelve
and the small hand on the five
he waits by the door with such anticipation -
waiting, watching, waiting
for his one and only – his Daddy…

He walks through the door at half past three
his face pensive with emotions soaring
needing desperately to be set free
yet still trapped inside.
He’ll never tell
where his anger hides
for him a living hell
and to display such vulnerability
in his early eyes
is to lose all credibility.

He drops his backpack to the floor,
delivers a “well enough” greeting,“Hey”
and proceeds right back out the door.
The ball is bouncing
each times it hits the ground
comes a new-fangled, novel sound.
I continue to listen and now the sound of his beloved sanctuary grows louder and more malicious …and the swish of it gliding perfectly through the hoop provides only a pseudo arrogance that he hides behind, but it’s all the same to him and it all gets him through ... 
yet he is filled with rage
and I feel helpless.

At thirteen, he despises his home and the memories it holds.
Haunting visions in the dead of night of what use to be,
the happiest and most secure times for him
now gone, wrecked, over; taken away.
Yet, he must learn to make the best of it; see the light
beyond the darkness of each new day.
He is in un- Godly pain,
yet he cannot show weakness
to admit to the injure, he is much too vein
so he continues to ache
and to the world he shows a smile fake.

He is now the Alpha-male
as he refuses to step down,
my actions under steady scrutiny
until his way is found.
It is I who is faced with his path
it is I whom he will lash out
and I who will receive the force of his tangled wrath
for the mother usually does.

As my patience wears thin
reality sets in
confronted with the cold harsh truth of it all
no matter the sound it makes
or the swish it scores
it is the ball that helps him fight his strife
and gets him through his mangled life.

"Mommy, what time is it when the big hand is on the twelve and the small hand is on the three?”
“Well, that’s the time children, just a little older than you, are finished with school.”
“I’m never going to school.”
“Why is that?”
“I just like to stay home with you.”
…And when the big hand on the twelve
and the small hand on the five,
he waits by the door with such anticipation
waiting, watching, waiting
for his one and only – his Daddy…

My child now jaded
memories, once pinnacle
now foggy and faded
and nothing but cynical.
Time rearranged his former perfect life
how ironic now -
school, his favorite place to be
with mentors and role models who fill up the gap
of his once “one and only” best friend and Daddy.
An unexpected course,
a sudden turn and jolt as he wonders if his father
feels any sort of remorse.
There was a time when his family meant the world
now just the bounce of the ball and at times a pretty girl. 

A mothers’ grief is always unyielding
as she looks on with great fret
to see her child suffer
there can be no worse upset.
A mother's sorrow is unrelenting
as she watches in dismay
“Please God, make his pain go away.”
His nostalgia slipping
his happiness disappeared
for every child of disconnection
I hope I have spoken
because my heart is in two
and my child is broken.

Matthew, I love you and I am so proud of how far you have come from this.
Your father adores you;
he could not go on without you and I'm so glad
you have him back in your life.
Always,
~Mom~