My Hiding Son on the Fourth of the July
by Chris Pellizzari
He’s hiding from lost house keys, from curls fallen from homemade haircuts swirling on orange carpet, from unplugged wires seeking their place in the galaxy. He’s hiding from the baseball he can’t wrap his fingers around, dropped and forgotten near the refrigerator in favor of a cherry popsicle. He’s hiding from baby sister’s bottle nipple pointing towards the fuse box that connects clean teeth to itchy fingers and from the steak knives his mother left out on the kitchen table, telling me to stay away. He’s hiding from promises I could not keep thanks to my diabetes, anxiety, insomnia, and cowardice. He’s hiding from the puppy that scratched his hand last week in mutual excitement and from the fireworks outside his window and the windless night carrying sulfur into today.
What is that humming sound coming from the kitchen sink, my boy’s hiding place? Come out, show yourself my son. There is a July cricket in the garage who wants to meet you. His voice is the truce between the earlier explosions of the fireworks and the quiet. Come my son, listen to the cricket, who keeps perfect time, like your heart when the fear is gone.
I hope, for both our sakes, the next decade is not too loud. I hope, for both our sakes, that time is kept perfectly.
Chris Pellizzari is a writer from Willowbrook, Illinois. His work has appeared in The Citron Review, Lake Effect, and Hobart. He is a member of The Society of Midland Authors.
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What surprising, fascinating stuff can you tell us about the origin, drafting, and/or final version of “My Hiding Son on the Fourth of the July”? The poem is influenced by a Fourth of July in which I witnessed my young nephew’s reactions after being frightened by some particularly loud fireworks outside his bedroom window.
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