My critical son

In the middle of the kitchen,  

he stands,  

arms crossed,  

a scientist in his own right,  

dissecting my words,  

turning them inside out,  

like a puzzle he’s yet to solve.  

 

“Mom, that’s not how it is,”  

he says, with a tilt of his brow,  

an eyebrow raised,  

as if I’m a relic,  

a fading page in his textbook of truth.  

 

I wonder,  

did I nurture scepticism too well?  

Did I plant the seeds  

of doubt,  

or was it the world  

that taught him to question  

the warmth of instinct,  

the pulse of intuition?  

 

Sisters,  

with laughter like sunlight,  

they bloom,  

while he stands,  

a shadow of logic,  

a mirror reflecting  

my every misstep.  

 

Yet here I am,  

writing verses,  

words flowing like rivers,  

and he claims the current  

is machine-made,  

as if my heart isn’t in the ink.  

 

Did I bring him up wrongly?  

Or is he merely searching  

for his own truth,  

in a world full of voices,  

while I speak 

in the quiet,  

still hoping  

he’ll hear me?