I WAS BESIDE THEE

I was beside thee when thy mother wept and drew thee, red and furious, to her breast. Thou knewest neither earth, nor grief, nor name, yet turned thine eyes toward where I stood. No priest had taught thee heaven. No tongue had taught thee me. Still — thou knewest. When thou wert five, and shadows climbed the chamber wall, thou spakest to the empty chair. They said, “The child converseth with himself.” I smiled. For I was there. I heard thy wooden soldiers fall, thy whispered kingdoms rise again. I watched thee bury beetles like small kings beneath the rosemary and rain. Then came the scratches. Ah, those first noble wounds — a knee made red upon a stone, a broken tooth, a friend who chose another friend. Thou learnedst how little blood a childhood heart requires to think itself undone. And when they left thee — one by one, for reasons children never understand — thou calledst not my name. Thou hadst forgotten it. Yet I remembered thine. Then came the maiden. God, how thou lovedst her. Not her. Me. Poor beautiful fool. Thou sawest something ancient in her eyes and laidst eternity upon her shoulders. How could she bear it?