If a poet has a dream, it is not of becoming famous, but of being believed. - Jean Cocteau
The boy has been causing all types of mayhem, experimenting with disrespect. It is difficult to watch, the clumsy birth of what may become a touch of healthy sarcasm and irreverence. The willingness towards naughtiness is a more compelling posture. I get that; I believe that. Of what use are manners if they show no sign of ever having been challenged? It is a thing that seems impossible to teach, for me, never having found the consistent balance to strike.
Mom's eyes sometimes let me know how detailed are my conversations with the boy about what I believe to be nuance in behavior and understanding. During the most boring times of the news cycle I read that kids are much smarter than the credit we tend to give or deny them. Over the course of a lifetime everything gets to be true for a moment.
I picked him up from school today. His punishment: sitting on the couch reading while I pretend to work. His young voice sounding out the halting words of each sentence. Had I known this would be the result of him causing trouble I might have been more encouraging. It is sweet in that way that you can not hold, only maybe keep as part of some amalgam of the memories of the time. I have written it down here.
And Now.
.
