Belly Button

Letting go and Growing Up

Belly Button

By Erin L George

There, in the middle of 14-year-old belligerence

and silent pauses that beg you not to chaperone

the heritage trip, it sits.

Nearly flush, unlike that of the father’s - aged and sticky

with lint. Wool sweater promises. I ask of him:

“Will there be girls going?” Eyes roll. “Mom. Stop!

We’re going to see the National Monument, space museum,

Liberty Bell.”

Where freedom rings and I stare at it -

Mommy’s kiss. A tattoo he’ll never be able to erase

of a time where my body nurtured innocence:

His, not mine.

Mine greedy to draw him in, leaving him with the two teachers

who stayed behind and kids in seventh grade

whose parents couldn’t afford it. Or were too scared

of hotel rooms and coach busses.

There, in the middle of middle-aged chicken s**t

and screaming fears that tell you he’s too young

for this, it blinks.

Reviews

[Bubo]

There, in the middle of middle-aged chicken s**t
and screaming fears that tell you he’s too young
for this, it blinks.

Oh wow.........the umbilical cord theory springs to mind, that no matter how hold we struggle to let go.........my daughter was 16 when she came home with two silver bolts pierced through her skin above her hip bone.........I cried......her precious skin damaged, where I use to kiss her..........I know these feelings so well and how beautifully you have written it..............