One more time, I've bailed out my son.
"Just talk. I'll type. Sit down. Just Get It Done."
He dredges words from some far distant land
They're covered in cement, molasses, sand.
He talks all day. He's funny. Witty. Bright.
But gets bewildered when it's time to write.
He grunts. He sighs. He groans. He gets a drink.
He paces, then shouts "Mom! Just let me think!"
I sit and wait, fingers at the keys.
I shouldn't do this. When I type, he's
Not doing it himself. But I don't care.
I want to get to bed before next year.
I grind my teeth. He crumples up a page.
"It all sounds lame!" I feel twice my age.
One word. Then two. Come on. Just two more.
The dog curls up on papers on the floor.
He finishes his essay. It's past late.
"It's awful, Mom." "No, it's not. It's great."
He zips it in his pack, then makes a beeline
Up the stairs. I need a glass of wine.