When my son was 14, and the air

between us was heavy, I remembered

the day he’d been with his grandparents

and they brought him to visit me at work.

When the elevator doors opened, they said

Here’s Mommy! in that way I hate

and my son stopped performing

his two-year-old antics, spun around,

and ran toward me as fast as he could

across that squeaky floor, and when he

reached my body I hoisted him over my

pregnant belly as one figure skater

lifts another. He was sun-warm

on my air-conditioned skin. He was

sweaty curls in the curve of my neck.

His heartbeat slowed from hummingbird

to boy, and others were there,

but we were alone in that frigid lobby,

alone and breathing, as when,

in that heavy year, our paths crossed

at 3:00 a.m. in our darkened home.

When my son was little, I was the first

to arrive at work in the morning, the last

one to leave at night. I didn’t think he needed

me; there were more qualified candidates

for the job. But there was one morning,

in our old duplex with the high ceilings.

My husband carried him to me in bed,

and after I’d given all my milk my son

looked at me (like we were talking)

and his eyes said I am satisfied.

Daylight warmed us in the pillows.

And it seemed to me, six months in,

that we were done with nighttime

feedings. And it seemed to me

like I could be all

you need.