My Santiago

Eccentric at Two (To my son)

The room, clothed in shadows, Emits from its inert confines, A whistle, A blast, loud and piercing!

I laugh. Eccentric at two?

The whistle cuts the dark once again. As he plays the role of the guard on the platform, Clinging to the crevices of wakefulness in the smooth wall of sleep. Iron-willed, yet dropping in jerky motion, Unable to vanquish the foe, Reality is lapped o’er by dreams. Yet the charade goes on… I wait a decent interval of time, Where the repartee with real friends, Plucked from imagination, has ceased, and stalk, -Skirting the tell-tale floorboards - the whistle, Now silent in that tiny hand, I find the grip resisting, even in his dreams.

I take it, gently! Tuck that precious body in, Gaze on that face, And see myself, my wife, our life. (All caught, defined in him) And I waft a kiss in his direction, Bless him through silent lips, Turn on my heel, And leave the room.

Earlier he had asked me, The dialogue plucked out of nothingness, “Dad, are we mice or men?” And then answered it, With the fine touch Of the practiced comedian, “Mice”