I wish

by amy sharp


My kid walked through the door and told me all about the unjust world of elementary school yesterday. He stood over me at the kitchen table in a thick slice of sun and told me how unfair life is and how he wants too many things and it's all just so unfair. 
It flew around the room.
Energy.
I looked inside of my blue teacup and stayed very calm.
It's unfair. Like a verbal tic. His arms looked so very long.
He finally sat down and we were face to face and I took his hand and held it like something fragile.
Like glass.
Or a tiny seashell.
I'm going to tell you the secret of the universe now.
My mouth was open. Moving.
Baby. It never stops feeling this way. 
For the rest of your life you will want things to be different.
Even when you're happy someplace.

He looked at me like a sad dog you don't pet.
Is it true comes out of his red mouth
No. Not for you.
I lie and give him chocolate biscuits and mess his hair.
But, he's my kid.
There's all this foam and guts and DNA of me and it may just happen.
It might be true.
I wish I knew.