“Yeah, kiddo. Thanks for asking.”
Rowan pitter-pattered across the floor toward his room. He reappeared a second later, with a piece of a recycled paper grocery bag in his hands. With a grin on his face, he handed the paper to Jamie.
“Oh,” Jamie said, his face softening as he looked at the picture. “I love this so much.”
Rowan clapped his hands together. “Papa wrote the words, but I did all the colors.”
Tyler watched Jamie’s eyes trace over the upper corner of the page, where Tyler had scrawled out a few clumsy, imperfect words, words that couldn’t come close to expressing everything he felt.
Jamie turned to Tyler, eyes full of emotion. “Tyler,” he breathed. “You wrote me a poem.”
“They’re just words,” Tyler said, a feeble attempt to brush off the awe in Jamie’s voice.
“None of that. These words are too beautiful to bejust words.” Jamie looked back at Rowan. “This is the coolest picture ever, bud. Can I put this on my fridge?”
Rowan nodded, grinning.
A few hours ago, Tyler had been sprawled on his belly beside Rowan on the floor, beeswax crayons and markers scattered around them. Rowan had explained that he was drawing the three of them: himself, Papa, and Jamie, and that he was also adding Bunny becausehewas a part of the family too. The scratches of blue were the ice and the scribbles of yellow were bright lights, because they were happy together.
The figures were barely discernible, but that was the beauty of art created by children. They hadn’t been broken by the demands of perfectionism yet. Rowan drew on the paper with all the confidence of a master, and Tyler swore he saw the truth in every line and squiggle.
It was brave, art like that. Not to Rowan, who was too young to have felt the constraints of expectations brought by the world, but to Tyler, it seemed like the greatest form of courage.
It was brave to live like that too, to live with hope and joy in the face of pessimism. To take a chance on love when it seemed so likely to fail.
Tyler had decided to be brave, too.
He’d grabbed one of the felt tipped markers and had begun to write. The marker was starting to dry out, the letters frayed and inconsistent, but it did the job.
What was left was the first poem he’d written in years.
Poetry used to come in the night–
Eyes wide, head still pounding
Glitter still clinging to my chest.
It would swell in my gut,
Tightening, winding up: a chokehold
Until it spilled from a wanting throat.
There was a symphony in my head,
A cacophony of warm, open tones
And all I had to do was pluck out the
Threads to weave a melody.
It is silent now.
The moon sunk below the oaks.
Eyes heavy, head empty of everything but
Sun and you.
