My son sits on my lap,
both of his legs straddling one of mine,
looking off at the contrasted
kitchen cabinets and countertops.
I wonder, since this position is so natural,
if maybe, possibly
my dad once held me this way.
then, I think how he will never
be able to hold his grandson.
My son ponders his hands,
his neck wobbling.
He’s learning to hold his head up.
Perhaps, still, so am I.