Her Son

A bag.
The bag holds clothes
for her grandson,
the son of her son.

Her son, the one who found out she was pregnant
the day after dad left,
his dad.

That was the day she cried
not in the arms of a strong man
cried with her son,
tears he shouldn't have seen.
He was a year shy of eleven then,
her son.

Do I write this story
because I want to?
I write it because I am compelled.

That was the day she decided
She must end the child's life
within her.


Her son,
the ten year old son who shouldn't have known all this was happening,
did know.
And he set down his Lego blocks
and told his mom she had to keep the baby.
When she explained why she couldn't (which took a little while, because she was a grown-up)
he insisted,
"I'm gonna help you, mom. So that's how you can keep the baby."

The bag is slung over her shoulder.
In it, a Power Rangers jacket and warm socks for her grandson.
"So when I called the hotline,
well, that's how I met Helen,
Thanks again for the clothes and..."
Interrupted by the ring of a pop song
"That's her now."
Her now.
The sister of her son.
Her daughter
Who is 13, and beautiful,
and alive.