Paul Dunion, EdD

I don’t know how to die with you.

There are so many ways we have

not yet begun. Thrown together

as mother and son. Never my intent

to have my uniqueness become

something so frightening for you to know.

In the beginning, I decided that your

fear meant there was something wrong

with me. That gradually shifted to there

must be something wrong with you.

Over time I made peace with the stranger

you called son.

What matters now, is the sorrow of a

relationship unlived. I see now how

I held a dream of walking more closely

with you. A walk of welcome and invitation,

of genuineness and compassion, play,

joy and forgiveness.

I see now how I’m being asked to

be the son who lived that dream,

not in resentment or regret, but

rather in acceptance and courage.

Holding the vision that there is more

than one way to be a woman’s son.

In finding some narrative about sons

and mothers, not burdened by contempt,

I can see you. You did not simply undersize

your world. You took great pride in accomplishing

simple tasks and you played games as if games

were ordained by God for your pleasure.

I am willing to learn how to die with you.

Our estrangement peals away in the face

of our common humanity, our mortality.

I find my own death and dying in your last

days. Stranger no more, I die as your son,

and find a place for our joining.