He races down the canyon, as I lumber down
like a mama bear
from behind,
with my plantars fasciitis and
my creaks.
I’m lucky that he pauses to gather twigs
and tries to plant them.
I can distract him with singing,
sometimes,
though the word stop is not yet more
than a question.
He knows that tasting
is the best way
to know, even me.
When I catch up to him on the grass,
he discovers I am tasty to kiss.
Only gradually will he understand
who I am,
born sixty-six years ago today,
or that, being such an age, I do not
have his full life still to go.
For now, he is learning how to give
the twig to me—one,
then another,
and what it is
to let go of a thing after tasting it.
