I gave my friend’s son
a book.
he’s just a young boy.
it was a gift.
it made us both happy.
he is six years old.
it is a children’s book
about the coast of Maine.
a book about my home state.
he wanted me to read it,
he wouldn’t let his dad.
“no,” he said,
“I want Jeremiah to!”
I wanted to share that
experience with him.
but my mind runs
too fast;
the words become a mess.
my mind moves
too quickly,
and they are not
the words on the pages.
this is my mind.
my words are here
and then they are
many miles
from my thoughts.
and my thoughts run,
and they are
in another world before
i find them.
it is this boy,
and his father,
and his mother
who will love me
and the words that
are not with the thoughts,
and the thoughts
that are not
with the words.
they will see me.
“I am very tired,”
I said.
“I don’t have my glasses,”
I said.
trying to excuse myself.
“The illustrations are
so beautiful.
let’s write our own stories,”
I said,
“let’s invent our
very own words.”
and he said it was “Ok,”
he said, “Ok, Jeremiah.”
that simple “Ok” held everything
i have lost with others.
it contained all
the forgiveness of my running mind,
and all the
forgiveness for my words
that didn’t follow the requests.
with him,
his father,
his mother,
i felt safe,
i felt home.

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