Lessons in Walking
The day my son was born, I worried whether or not I would be able to teach him how to walk. I knew I would have to hold his hands and lift him off the ground just enough—but not all the way—so that he could still feel the earth beneath his feet. I knew, too, that I would have to let him fall from time to time so he would come to know the joy of getting up on his own. I knew that there would be pain and frustration and anger at me for not always protecting or helping him. And over the decades, he has fallen, gotten up, fallen again, gotten mad, and gotten up again, all on his own. But today, after he picked me up from another in a series of nasty falls of my own, I’ve begun to worry whether or not I can teach my son the proper way to die.
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Kip Knott is a writer, photographer, and part-time art dealer who travels the back roads of the Midwest and Appalachia in search of lost art treasures. His writing has appeared Best Microfiction and The Wigleaf Top 50. His book of stories, Family Haunts, is available from Louisiana Literature Press.
OMG, what a great poem. This is why I read poetry: to have my own experience defined and made real. thank you!
What a beautifully paced, deep and simple poem, a perfectly arced journey that ends with a gasp.
So powerful.
Perfect. 🙏
That’s a haunting piece! And I’ll admit that I have just recently started thinking about what my parents taught me about how to grow older and how to die. We teach our kids so much more than we ever knew we would.