Like other nine year-olds,
he fears
what lurks
in the shadows of the night,
under beds,
inside closets.
He fears
the flash of lightning,
the crash of thunder.
He fears
losing sight of Mommy
in a crowd.
But he also fears
death
and dying.
They are not the same thing.
He fears Armageddon.
He fears packages left on doorsteps.
He fears large crowds
and stray bullets.
He fears school shooters.
He fears bombs,
nuclear attacks,
and Kim Jong Un.
He fears tweets from Trump.
He fears dying young.
My helicopter-mom status
failed to shield him
from shifts in cultural norms.
April 2018
iWrite the Utterly Impossible 