Like that time my son came upon the bug
that had floated motionless in the pool all afternoon.
Scooping it out, he stood eyes quietly fixed,
for what felt like hours, until his tiny voice
interrupted the solemnity of his own vigil:
“He’ll come back to life—some day;”
and before I could muster a response
or even confirm whether this was in fact
a question or a prayer, the bug righted itself
and flew off into the silence of the August sky,
far above my boy who stood there giggling,
amazed at what he had done.
Little Beckett, his father’s son—
all his miracles are wasted.