Skipping ahead he avoids cracks

as not to break my mother's back -

head bent low upon his task, his concern dear.

 

My hand yearns for the warmth of his,

to have him safely by my side -

yet I forgo such a tether,

 

try banishing the "what if" of terror

that may lurk beneath Manhattan streets,

along well-worn Brooklyn walkways.

 

Paris is an ocean away, but as we idled

in the quagmire of George Washington Bridge,

"what if" kept taunting

 

and I could see no way of escape -

certainly not down.  I'm afraid of heights anyway,

so we turned up the music and sang.  Loudly.

 

The inevitable comes; he steps on a crack -

assures me it's just a game.  Yet, in a heartbeat

I'd gladly sacrifice my back,

 

to never silence children's voices,

never stifle their dreams, their talents.  I wish

it was as easy as that.

 

by Margaret Bednar, November 20, 2015