On this hot June evening,
my son and I listen to new music
in the cool basement, staying up late,
having a pretty darn good time.
Before bed, though, one more chore:
fold and put away the laundry
in a pile on the bed upstairs.
O horrors, as I’m folding I see
these little curled up pieces of paper
scattered in the laundry
and soon reach an explanation:
the stack of 12 highly prized Pokémon
cards he’d taken to the restaurant
the night before have ended up in the wash.
I know that, no matter what I do
from this point on, withhold or reveal,
this will not go well, and it does not.
I choose to reveal, and I hold them
in my hands, a pathetic offering, for him to see.
You’d think someone had run over his dog
and then backed up to do it again.
He’s weeping and flailing around
on the floor and saying over and over,
“this is not happening.” At one point,
he leaves the room for a moment
and comes back in the door thinking
he’ll be awake and the crumpled-
up cards, the fanciest ones in his
collection, will be whole again.
I put on my best fathering hat.
I talk him down. I try to help him
see that of all the terrible things
that could befall a boy of ten,
this, actually, is not the worst of them.
A little lesson in privilege and good fortune
but not too far over the top, except the one
reminder that his mother is now cancer free.
There are hugs. A resignation.
Some encouragement that there may be
other Pokémon cards in the future
that may rival these lost ones.
My son encloses his now worthless
cards in a makeshift plastic coffin,
writes an epitaph, and completes
his ritualistic two claps and a bow.
Laundry put away, emotions shifting,
settling back into our cool basement
listening parlor for more new music,
he comes over to my chair for one more
hug and tells me he loves me.