At the end of his school day,

he climbs into my car,

this Kindergarten child whose

birth almost eluded us

as we watched his mother

contract too soon.

He snaps his seatbelt, this

dimpled imp whose sweet

voice belies the grit that

helped him hang on until

his scheduled delivery date.

He talks of his day—

the art of learning, his

discovery of words on the page,

the read-aloud poem of the week

requiring three adult signatures.

He tells of his highlight,

Nana, he says, today I learned

all about punctuation, I know

     the period

     the question mark

     the excabation point.

But, he confides, I didn't

learn about the comma yet.

Reaching his home, he hops

from the car, mounts the stairs

toward his snack in the kitchen, 

 

this after-school gift,

my brown-eyed

excabation point.

 

Copyright by Gail Fishman Gerwin.

Used with the author's permission.