I stitched the Halloween costume
my son chose, its blue cape heralding
an orange capital G, a bobble-nosed
mask. He didn’t like each fitting
but new blue jammies were fine.
All dressed, he revealed the child he was—
standing still, waiting, his look expectant,
began to melt away. Had I left in a pin,
was he changing his mind?
I finally got it—the costume would not
lift him off the ground, prove his power
by performing good deeds. Who was he then
but a child waking a moment to the world
he’d walk in forever, in this too his parents
had a dim capacity for wings.
Yes, at a young age we feel we can fly, even if in a metaphorical way. We believe in the “super” natural. We believe in Santa. And then it all comes crashing to a halt. The poem is so good in setting this all out for us and our role in the trajectory of the beliefs.