Almost a Conversation

A photo of my mom playing accordion.
She was reconnecting with her Chicago roots,
The unavoidable polka.
Now she no longer squeezes the squeezebox,
No longer invokes the infernal 3-count.

Her accordion is now a metaphor for time.
Exhaled, closed and compact, it speaks of brevity.
My son’s birth happened yesterday.
My wife, in the bathtub, her full body pushing
The wrinkled sojourner into my waiting hands.
The organ expands, a lung taking in air,
And time expands with it.

It seems impossible so much life could have happened in nearly 18 years.
A tiger in a Halloween costume licking the salty wound of his first skinned knee,
A trumpet player serenading his first crush,
A runner, running, breathing, breathing harder, pushing, pressing,
Boy legs becoming man legs, increasing, reaching, running,
Now toward me, now away from me, the way I always knew he would.
The exhale, the collapse, the closing in.

The accordion gasps and he graduates in weeks.
My mom will be there, and so will her hands,
Telling the stories of everything she has ever held,
Including me on my first day, and him at his first bath.
She will say to my son, “I love you” and “I’m so proud of you.”
And he will smile and not know what to say in return.
And time will expand again, and the song will go on.