When my son was eleven he went away to camp for a full month, a decision I was not at all sure of. The camp was three hours away in another state and I missed him terribly and wrote and sent packages and tried not to worry and hoped he was having fun, which it turned out he was. At the end of camp, parents had a choice: they could pick their child up or their child could ride back to the city on the camp bus. I chose to drive up, not knowing that literally every other camper would take the bus back.

When I got there it was raining lightly. The woods were green and deep, the cabins were empty, and I suddenly felt inadequate, as if I’d deprived my son of a few more hours of fun on the bus with his friends. No one was there but a few counselors and a quiet boy in a blue rain jacket, watching me with calm eyes, waiting for me to recognize him, this same boy who had once lived inside me.

Spelling Bee, by Faith Shearin

In the spelling bee my daughter wore a good
brown dress and kept her hands folded.
There were twelve children speaking

into a microphone that was taller than
they were. Each time it was her turn
I could barely look. It wasn’t that I wanted

her to win but I hoped she would be
happy with herself. The words were too hard
for me; I would have missed chemical,

thermos, and dessert. Each time she spelled
one correctly my heart became a bird.
She once fluttered so restlessly beneath

my skin and, on the morning of her arrival,
her little red hands held nothing.
Her life since has been a surprise: she can

sew; she can draw; she can read. She hates
raisins but loves science. All the parents
must feel this, watching from the cheap

folding chairs. Somewhere inside them
love took shape and now
it stands at the microphone, spelling.

Click here for more information about poet Faith Shearin. Today’s poem is from her collection Moving the Piano, published in 2011 by Stephen F. Austin State University Press.

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