The Fruits of my Labor

In the photograph, the child stands
beside the pumpkin; one hand rests on it, possessively.

At first glance his face is cheerful, though unsmiling.
On second glance stubborn, lips tightly set.

In the background pale mist weaves
through the tops of the trees, their leaves painted

in shades of brown and yellow
in that half-light of cold autumn days.

My son’s cheeks are round and rosy
in the cool, moist air. His blue sweater is zipped

tightly to his chin. Black rubber boots, splattered
with mud, reach up to his knees.

Oh, how well I remember that day, the day we went to the field
to pick a pumpkin. How he ignored the hay rides,

the farm animals, the laughing children,
so intent was he on the round, orange pumpkins in the hay covered field.

His stubby two year old legs
carried him from one pumpkin to the other until he found

just the right one. Squeals of delight echoed
across the fields, through the trees, and down to the river below.

I remember how determined he was
to pick it up, to carry it himself,

the pumpkin that was almost as big as he.
I had to persuade him

to let me take his picture beside that pumpkin.
In the end we carried the pumpkin together,

the child large in my belly
turning as though to help.

When I look at this picture, I long for this simple world where peace
lies sleeping, like a comfortable old dog.

When the floor boards would crack and pop
during the long cold nights,

while the wind whispered
its contentment around the eaves.


At seventeen,
the same look is upon his face

and in the unyielding stance of his body
as he stands in the doorway, car keys in hand.

The sun, through the glass, glints
off his earrings, makes a halo of his bleached hair.

He argues, until defiance
ushers him out. ©


~Kelly King