Opposing Views on being Homesick
There’s merit in noticing
the stoop of shoulders, where
becomes a foolish servant.
To let one speak is to hear,
so telling of ourselves,
and when my son said,
“I wish I was dead,”
I did not want to make merit
of it, recalling brief thoughts
of my own of late, “Dear God,
don’t let me die in this place.”
For him, to die. For me, survive.
Written to Margo’s Prompt on Perspective
“Found” and remixed text from my diary of Feb 1991,
and “Bleak House” by Charles Dickens.
Note: This was a passing outburst from my son after a difficult week at a new school with no friends, unfamiliar food, and deep-wintery weather. I was recovering from viral pneumonia.