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Three Boys and a Mom |
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by Nur Abdur Rashid Three boys and a mom, so close to my heart; tense and loose their tears and smiles... How can I when can I a busy dad am I... Her hands and feet smell of fresh wheat gentle in my mind's ear on my mind's ear; waking that dormancy... towards a daughter... like her? Three boys and a mom, so dear to my heart; my teachers my students my friends my rooters keeping me honest, with their roving eyes, their questioning pause, at my ranting and ravings Can they feel do they know: the energy of my temper... They tamper with my frown and I explode in laughter, my bravado disintegrated by an inadvertant snicker so skillfully aimed at my defenseless fatherhood. Two boys, their baby brother and a mom... living in a foreign land they know as 'home' Where their heart most certainly is in mine and I in theirs... living for hope of love excelling; where demons of the past rejoice in release from blood feuds long wasted for want of a reason that rhymes with the agony of the losses tallied in tears and wounds so hideous; strewn over lands and times of Godless woe. Their baby brother, oblivious to the selfishness which tugs at their hearts, my heart, our heart; oblivious to strains encroaching and poaching the royal game that flitters in our more noble thoughts... that scatters in the sancutary of the original lovejoy--that haven which baby seems to know so naturally, so intimately. One boy, two younger brothers and a mom... the eldest son, carrying the burden of the one whose love was divvied-up and parcelled-out, no choice of his own; the water up-stream, where all eyes turn when murky yearnings appear down in the rushing waters of the lesser two divides... The battle he wages in stages of development, primogenitor of loyal nations; a strong horse in the fields, ore the plains, oblivious to territory, infectious in his ways, for good or not. First born of our love, loves to be born on the waves of that love so untimely compromised by a second; and by yet another. How can I... when can I... does he feel... does he know...? An elder brother, the youngest brother, a second son and a mom. Who can appreciate the trials of a second-in-line? Rolling head over heels like a tumble-weed monkey... wearing his goodness on his sleeve for mom to retrieve time and again... The squawk and squeal of one deprived; out-done, yet never to be out-done... With the scent and sensibilities of his mom so light, so naive, so subtle complexities and yesterday's lesson slip like eggs off teflon. A festival of colors defuse what devilish hues might otherwise overshadow the virtues of the feasts of remembrance. Canvas within, canvas without -- lucid and vivid with never-ending leaps and bounds -- serve to awaken, revive, the echoes of our best efforts to be free and true to our purity. ... and a mom... the receptive, the receptacle, bears all and imagines not "why?" A few notes on our boys and this mom: Our first son--Ch'ung-Guk / Tadakuni (loyalty-nation)-- was born in the year of the Horse (1990). Our second --Jason / Saizen (Festival-Virtue)--was born in the year of the Monkey (1992). Our Third--Tae-Seong / Taisei (Great-Holiness)--was born in the year of the Mouse (1996) Their mother, Mihoko (my better half), was born and raised in Japan; and I am Black American, etc... |
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