Saint Patrick

My body has been pulled into two.

When people see my son they say,

“He looks just like you.”

 

I know he does because I made him;

Sculpted him with delicate hands while staring at my own reflection. 

When he was finished, 

 

I stared at his porcelain skin for hours. 

He was every bit me as I was.

For the first time in my life,

 

I felt the burden of uniqueness fly from my shoulders,

And into the sky that I created.

I enjoyed living with him.

 

Nothing changed except for the pull-out couch in my living room.

Often,

I would watch him sleep.

 

The rise and fall of his chest,

And the way his arms lay crossed,

Just like mine.

 

When he woke up he would always blink twice.

He would take a deep breath,

The same time I did,

 

And our lungs would fill with the same air.

One morning he came into my room.

He sat at the foot of my bed.

 

“I’m lonely.”

“What do you mean?” I asked him.

“It’s just us.”

 

“Yes…don’t you enjoy it?”

He paused for a very long time.

“I’m lonely.”

 

I realized the air around us was much too still.

“Maybe I am too.”

“Oh.”

 

For his birthday I gifted us with companionship.

A spirit that was both his and mine.

He cried for a long time.

 

I watched as the spirit wiped his face clean.

Free of being just mine. 

I didn’t know my chest could feel so full.

 

In the morning,

They would chase each other in circles;

Endlessly in blooming weeds.

 

In the evening,

They would lay in each other’s arms,

Protected by a blanket much too small.

 

For lunch,

I would make them ham and cheese sandwiches.

To drink,

 

A tall glass of water with five pieces of ice.

They sat parallel at the table,

Never speaking,

 

Only needing the company of the other's presence.

I liked to watch them run,

Round and round in circles,

 

Singing with the dandelions. 

They had traveled to the farthest corner of the yard,

Almost out of view.

 

A small patch of bushes sprouting rich,

Purple berries. 

The two huddled over it for many minutes.

 

When I called for lunch they didn’t come running,

Instead slowly walking,

Laughing to one another. 

 

“Are you hungry?” I asked,

Presenting the same lunch I always did.

They stood in silence so strong that it ruined my appetite.

 

Finally,

The spirit shook his head no,

And my son followed his lead.

 

They stuck out their hands,

Palms open and guilty.

Their fingertips were dripping with a deep purple.

 

Quietly,

I set down their plates and cups. 

I watched from the corner as they licked their fingers clean.

 

When I got up out of bed I rubbed my eyes,

A sliver of light shone under my door.

I wasn’t used to it being so bright.

 

As I walked out,

I saw little hands working over the stove,

And dirty dishes by the sink.  

 

My son rushed to my feet and presented me with a full plate:

Scrambled eggs with the shells,

Uncooked bacon,

 

And a glass of lukewarm orange juice.

He and the spirit had already set the table.

I pulled out my chair slowly,

 

Hunched over my plate.

The two watched me eagerly,

As I had,

 

And waited for me to take a bite.

But I was frozen.

A single tear dropped from my cheek,

 

Mixing with the pile of eggs. 

When I looked up,

I saw my son staring at me.

 

His eyes were wide,

Full of pride and triumph. 

“Do you like it?”

 

He was rocking back and forth on his feet.

“Of course I do,” I said,

“You made it.”

 

He was pleased,

And I forced a smile. 

But my chest was heavy, 

 

and my face hot.

With a big smile,

And skipping feet,

 

He ran to do the dishes.

I knew then that he wouldn’t need me anymore.

Still, 

 

On my bedside table sits a picture.

Our hands clasped,

Light beaming from my only son’s head.