Singing.

Homer, Whitling Boy, 1873

The HAMMOCK

When I lay my head in my mother’s lap

 I think how day hides the stars,

 the way I lay hidden once, waiting

 inside my mother’s singing to herself. And I remember

 how she carried me on her back

 between home and the kindergarten,

 once each morning and once each afternoon.

 

 I don’t know what my mother’s thinking.

 

 When my son lays his head in my lap, I wonder:

 Do his father’s kisses keep his father’s worries

 from becoming his? I think, Dear God, and remember

 there are stars we haven’t heard from yet:

 They have so far to arrive. Amen,

 I think, and I feel almost comforted.

 

 I’ve no idea what my child is thinking.

 

 Between two unknowns, I live my life.

 Between my mother’s hopes, older than I am

 by coming before me, and my child’s wishes, older than I am

 by outliving me. And what’s it like?

 Is it a door, and good-bye on either side?

 A window, and eternity on either side?

 Yes, and a little singing between two great rests.

Li-Young Lee