The Sun

“Mama, I’m scared,” the 5-year-old whimpered,

From beneath his blankets a trembling finger lifted into the dark.

And I followed his fearful stare to the closet,

To a venomous, sweatshirt-sleeve viper menacing back at us.

“Worry not, sweet son,” I soothed,

“If the snake should strike, you will forever be protected.”

With the fluffy gift I presented, his joy lit the room,

And he snuggled down to sleep with his new lion companion.

“Mama, they hate me,” the 11-year-old shouted,

Resisting the jaws of the open door at his second day of middle school.

“They said I’m a soulless ginger, that I’m too fragile and pale.”

The frustration on his face had stopped the morning still.

“Worry not, sweet son,” I cooed,

“They are just jealous of the sunbeams in your hair.

You have more light and love in you than they ever will.”

And he nodded and smiled, and ran off to confront the world.

“Mama, I can’t,” the 18-year-old sobbed,

Tears sailing down into the cracks of clay unformed.

Muddied palms drove into his cheeks and mourned his art school dream,

As the deadline for his portfolio yet slithered ever closer.

“Worry not, sweet son,” I assured,

“You breathe life into your visions unlike any other.”

Gently I embraced him until his fingers ceased to shake,

And in due time, strange little figures gazed in wonderment up at him.

“Mama, I’m sorry,” the 27-year-old mumbled,

A crowd and I meandered around in the opening of his next grand exhibit.

But fame and fortune to yank him from home had never been what he envisioned.

The guilt of abandonment coiled, constricting tighter about him.

“Worry not, sweet son,” I affirmed,

“Day and night, you grow brighter from the reverence of others,

A king among a world of kings, so much stronger with every battle.

Always lift your face high and be the sunshine they deserve.”