Memorial Day

The park is a silly place
to go with a 1-year-old
but that is where we are—
my elder sister, nephew, and I—
taking advantage of the baby
swings in the mildly empty
park while families
barbeque and play wii golf.

The baby likes the swings.
His floppy curls hang in the air
and his mouth smiles
and his eyes observe
children doing things he will do
when he is older and bigger.

It takes fifteen minutes
for the baby to stick out his arms
in a way we know to mean
pick me up now, I’m tired of this.
My sister instantly complies
(she won’t let this child want for anything)
and takes him over to a covered slide,
where she coaxes him
intro trying out a new activity.

A little boy, maybe 4,
with a dirty face and a too-big shirt
comes to stand before me,
looking up at my face
and then at the swings.
Understanding, I lift him up
and into the nearest swing.
He wiggles his legs, attempting
to propel himself, but without
understanding the mechanics of it.
So I push him a couple times,
just enough to get him going,
before responding to
my sister’s waving fingers
telling me to come help her.

The baby walks up and down a playhouse
aided by gripped fingers and
verbal encouragement.
The little boy’s swing, I see
from a backward glance,
has stopped moving.
He sits, pouting for a minute
before reshaping his mouth from
a line to an O, shouting, Mom
over and over.

I look around, feeling bad,
and spot a woman with unwashed
blond hair sitting on the hood
of a faded red car,
smoking a cigarette down to the stub.
she didn’t get up, didn’t respond,
but I knew he was hers.
It was a brother, a couple years older,
who finally came over, looking sullen,
and pushed the swing,
shutting up the boy.

They stayed a long time.
The brother helped the little boy
out of the swing and
abandoned him. The boy,
left to his own devices,
sat in the dirt and threw
rocks at structures.
I eyed the mother as she lit up
another cigarette. I had a sudden
desire to pick up that child and
thrust him at her, say
this boy is yours, you accepted
responsibility for him when you
had him and kept him.
Wash his face, buy him some clothes
that fit him, pay him some attention,
and love him. Don’t you know
how important it is to a child
to be loved?

I wondered if I said these things
if she would listen,
if she would care,
if she would glare at me
with those dead eyes and
blow smoke in my face.
she looked like a woman who
could use a little love herself.

The baby was cranky and ready
to nap so we packed up and left.
I didn’t talk to that woman.
I didn’t even say goodbye to the boy.
But I have this image burned
into my memory of that little boy
sticking out his arms,
wanting for everything.