Smaller than the Sky

I’m smaller than the sky, he answers when

a stranger asks his age.

“He’s three,” I interject, before 

his response registers.

My son is huge

for his age, as sturdy

as the rhinoceros on his t-shirt,

and his genetics promise

he will overshadow me sooner than later.

I’m smaller than the sky.

Well, yes. You are 

smaller than the sky,

smaller than the seven seas,

smaller than the wonder at the end of a story,

smaller than the questions worth asking,

smaller than the emptiness in your hands…

My son, you will not stay small,

but please,

please stay

smaller.

Rachel Joy Yorkowitz