Tony Gloeggler: Goodbye

Today, I picked Jesse up
from music group. He said
my name as soon as I stepped
through the door, tried to run
to me. The therapist stood
in his way, forced him to stay
until he made eye contact,
said goodbye to her assistant,
the other kids. She slowly
walked him over to me,
assured me how much better
he was doing while he tugged
an my arm repeating home
louder and louder. I thanked her
while we headed out the door,
tried to keep him from jumping
into every puddle, steer him
from bumping into people
as we turned down subway stairs.
Jesse took a window seat,
got on his knees and traced
the outline of his face as we rode.
I finger counted the six stops
to Hamilton Parkway, promised
that his mom would be waiting
for him. When the train rose
out of the ground, climbed up
into the cloudless sky, he ran
to the front door. I stood behind
him, played with his hair as all
of Red Hook spread beneath us.

I glanced at the other rider,
curious whether they could tell
something was different about Jesse,
then wondered what he was thinking,
if his brain could hold anything
other than shapes and colors
flying past, the feel of glass
against his fingertips, the thought
that his mommy would be waiting
three, now two, stations away.
I imagined what he would do
if we stayed on longer, rode
to Coney Island. Would he stop
crying and fighting long enough
to see or hear, smell the ocean?
would he run across the sand
like the summer before, strip
down to his shorts? Jump
and play in the waves until
the last light leaves the sky?

The closets are empty
and piles of packed boxes
line the walls of his house,
but I’m not sure Jesse
knows that he’s moving
back to Maine in the morning.
I don’t know if he can grasp
the concept of missing someone
or understand how hard
it is for me to keep from crying.
He has no idea that I met him
three years ago. I went
with Helen to pick him up
from school one afternoon.
The Sunday after, finished
with my bowl of oatmeal,
I was watching her lift
her teacup to her lips
when I realized I wanted
to spend my life with her
and it scared me to death.
I don’t know what Jesse
remembers about Maine,
about moving to Brooklyn,
if he knows when things started
to fall apart or why me and his mom
couldn’t find a way to stay together,
if he remembers that I moved
down the block, kept visiting him
while everyone I know told me
to let go and move on
that I didn’t owe him a thing,
and no one seemed to accept
or understand I love Jesse,
that the way he will never fit
in the world reminds me of me
and I wish he was my son,
my eight year old boy.
My my, mine.

Copyright 2023 Tony Gloeggler. First published in Skidrow Penthouse. Included in Vox Populi by permission of the author.

Tony Gloeggler is a lifetime resident of New York City. His poetry collections include What Kind of Man (NYQ, 2020).