My Son

He moved away. That child of mine.
Not yet man. No longer a boy.
In some ways, always a child.

He moved away.
To break the days of youth. A life of his own.
2,000 miles. From East to West.

He moved away. That child of mine.
“Mom, I’m broke.”
Just like that, he’s home again.

He moved away.
He moved away.
Truth is truth. A mother is not measured by miles.

He moved away. That child of mine.
He moved away.
But not from my heart.

**

The Last Battle of Two Shoes

Upright they stand. Soldiers of memories.
Standing side by side. Ready to defend Achilles’ Heel.
Dancing. Shuffling. Running between the past and future.

Rhinestone Cowgirl. Booted Confederate Reb.
Suede, patent leather. Two brothers torn against foot.
Pointy toed, leopard print wearing Yank.
Slingbacks. Wedges. Slave or emancipated desire?

High heels. North of the Mason Dixon line. Sometimes.
Virginia born and bred. Barefoot, southern girl.
Always!