Can You Feel the Love?

The poetry stretch this week is to write a love poem without explicit words of love—no terms of adoration or endearment.

My son will be 8-years old in a few days, so he's been much on my mind lately. This is where my poem went.

Weekday Ritual

Early each morning
we walk up the hill
to the bus stop.
We wait.
He hops, puddle jumps,
can’t stand still.
We thumb wrestle.
As the lumbering yellow giant approaches
we are all formality—
no kisses
no hugs
no nicknames—
just a high five in which our hands
stay pressed together a mere second
longer than expected.

He bounds
up the steps,
down the aisle,
takes his seat—
sometimes alone,
sometimes next to a girl.
I wave, but can’t see him through the
tinted glass.

He heads to school,
I to work.
He does not see me,
but I see him everywhere—
in the words I write,
students I teach,
stories I tell.

At days end
I head home,
pull into the drive,
honk twice.
From inside I hear
him yell
“Mommy’s Home!”
and I melt.

So, is it a love poem? I don't know, but it feels like it. I'm going to keep writing and see what else spills out on paper this week.