Echo of Boy

My son hunches into the storm in his oversized coat  
to collect fast offerings, a two-hour route  
because the other mother’s sons stay in when it’s cold. 
He is mine.  
His wrists 

out-hang his sleeves. His hair  
squirms from his well-slicked part,  
and he is mine. He’s out there  
in the snow and I can’t settle. Thirteen years old; thirteen, 
            the way he slides a little to the right of us on the Sunday pew, 
            like someone has hit “tab” on the keyboard, though still 
            he’ll let me pull him back to drape my arm around  
            those slumping shoulders.  
                        Shadow of boy.  

                        It’s snowing and he is fine out there.  
                        He’s fine. At home  
                        he sprawls on the couch behind those heavy eyes. Outline 
                        of boy. Echo of boy. I tell it to him straight: “The reward 
                        for showing up,” I say, “is that you’re the first one they call 
                        next time. Find a way to be proud of that.” He looks  
                                    away. Should I apologize for this burden of duty I’ve bred 
                                    into him, for the fact that from now on he’ll leave  
                                    no ward gathering without putting away chairs? Welcome 
                                    to Mormon guilt, my son. Welcome to the wilderness. 
                                    Sometimes a suit is a front bumper, silver plating, deadweight. 
                                                Sometimes it is wings.

                                                            Those heavy-lidded eyes. Let there be a man 
                                                            behind there. The still-narrow shoulders, crooked 
                                                            tie. Does he slump to parenthesize the space 
                                                                        he’ll leave when he’s gone? Look  
                                                                        forward, son. Look forward,  
                                                                        mother. On the horizon  
                                                                        in the chalky dusk:  
                                                                                    contrail of boy.