The Heart of the Matter

He says, "Look, my fingers are SO
shaky," and holds out his hand,
with slightly dirty fingernails
of a 12-year-old.
The living-room light projects
long, pointed shadows
that flutter and float in the vast
whiteness of the wall behind us.
I don't know what to say
but I say something, anything.
His eyes widen with an uncertainty;
his laughter betrays an unease -
but the next moment he's forgotten,
and is pleased about some other thing.

And what is there to say?

That weakness sneaks in early,
already at 12;
that it hits where it hurts the most,
some vacuum, some hole, some
motherless void,
where for a moment -- or longer --
the ultimate frailness,
the singular solitude
of being alive reveals itself
(and dazzles or horrifies)
as the one truth worth trying
to avoid.

The cat catches a whiff of murky thoughts
and saunters over to destroy them: he flips
to his back and shows a soft belly,
demanding an immediate course of action.
In the thickening darkness of a late afternoon,
the boy's fingers, my words and the cat's purrs
(no adjectives used -- I know better)
fill the room and beyond,
and, without a doubt,
become all that matters.