Kevin Sweeney
Transitions
As the bail commissioner does paperwork that with $500
will allow my son to walk outside and light his first cigarette in a week,
through the window I see the critical care unit of Maine Medical Center
where last winter I sat by his bed waiting for him to wake up
after a second attempt at suicide in 6 weeks.
It is so much better to be at the jail and not see the breathing tube,
the IV’s and heart monitor, though here no kindly nurse squeezes my hand.
He says he’ll sign over his paychecks to pay for damage to the car,
that when he ran over a sign it was a legitimate accident that
could have occurred without the 3 beers. Maybe 4. Or 5.
I want to remind him of that Eric Clapton song when he was small,
how he’d said “I feel sad for that man,” when he learned it
was about the death of the singer’s son.
I want to thank him for having been a good boy until he turned 21
and became a troubled man.
I want to believe his therapist can save him,
that the two medications will work like a cracker jack team
to lift him high as my shoulders where I once carried him
I want to carry him now too but he wants to do it alone,
so we drive immediately to his work where they want him back.
He’s still going to finish those 3 semesters for his degree.
I want to believe him, his own steady voice next to me in the car.