Broken Things

You’re the one who breaks things–
windows
and remote controls
and bones
and hearts
definitely hearts.

But the day I picked you up at school
to find your thumb askew
and you gray-faced but stoic,
tears coming only after I entered the room,
for once I knew what to do.
And as we drove and then waited
for the x-rays
and the doctor
I felt so strong and sure of your need for me,

and so proud of you,
so ridiculously brave,
completing the play
even after the ball had shattered your hand,
sitting now all ashen with pain
yet making jokes to pass the time.

So sure I felt, and so proud.
There are times, now,
when I think I could break it again myself
just to feel that way once more.