Chanel Brenner
God’s Hand
Scaling a wall at the beach,
my son slips—and falls—
thwacking muscle and bone
against concrete.
I imagine internal bleeding,
fractured spine, paralysis.
When his older brother died,
faith in children’s resilience
abandoned me.
A friend says,
You should have left him
on life support longer:
God gives miracles—
I think of the Texas teen,
who fell thirty-five hundred feet
skydiving and survived—
.
her spine, pelvis, and two ribs
broken in half; her lungs, liver,
and brain bleeding—but alive,
expected to make a full recovery—
her sister assured reporters,
God’s hand caught her.”
My son jumps up like a puppet,
I’m okay, Mommy!
I’ll never get hurt.
Me Hulk, he says,
pounding his chest.
I want to believe him,
to believe God’s hand,
and not blind luck,
caught the girl, as I watch
him scale the wall again.
Raising Grief
When my son died,
Grief was born.
Colicky, wet-eyed,
I ran circles
trying to console her.
Sleep-deprived,
I pushed her
in a stroller,
tried every pacifier.
Those first years
bled into each other—
falling asleep
with her in my arms,
breathing in unison,
protecting the fontanel
on her fragile head.
Now, I know
to feed her small meals,
and let her self-soothe
when she seethes.
Before she runs off
to climb a tree,
she nuzzles me
on a park bench,
swinging her legs
like a four-year-old.
When My Son Asks, Am I Born to Play Football?
It’s violent and brutish, I want to say.
Grown men crashing into each other,
like souped-up monster trucks,
as spectators roar like gorillas.
Torn hamstrings, dislocated shoulders.
Ruptured discs, cracked skulls,
blood leaking like gasoline.
I want to say he can never play it.
Ever!
But when he faithfully practices
his pigskin spin in the yard—
I see the way his face lights up,
like Lambeau Field on opening night.
