Weaning: Burial

The night we buried my uncle was the first night
my son fell asleep without nursing. He didn’t even ask.
As he was falling asleep, I thought of the earth
each of us shoveled onto my uncle’s coffin, the thud
of dirt hitting wood. Back at the hotel, I thought:
I am the mother of a son who will one day die.
Look at her, cleaning the potty with a baby wipe,
black mascara smudged beneath her eyes.
My son isn’t home, he’s out of routine–
that’s why he forgot to nurse. Tomorrow
he may ask again, when we’re home
and I’ve changed out of my black clothes,
my uncle hovering in the corner of the ceiling,
the room full of winter light, Christmas near.