One afternoon in the kitchen, my kids are doing their homework while I try to get some work done. My son looks up from the computer, where he is doing research for his fifth-grade poetry project.
“Mommy, what’s a prostate?”
I did not see this coming with a poetry project.
I explain. His eyes widen.
He says, “Robert Frost died of complications from prostate surgery.” The last word is whispered.
Ah. That explains the relevance. Good to know he hasn’t found a site with someone’s “Ode to a Prostate” — or worse.
I say, “Well, I guess he had prostate cancer.”
His next comment could be heard three blocks away: “You can get CANCER in your PENIS???!!!!”
His sisters look up from their homework.
I clarify the location of the prostate.
My son is still aghast. Shaking his head, he returns to reading in silence for a few minutes, another layer of childhood innocence gone forever.
The rest of us also get back to work.
“Did you know that Robert Frost had a life full of sorrow?” he asks.
I contemplate my own life of constant interruption. I decide on balance, things aren’t that bad.
“No, I did not.” I say. “I thought he just stopped by the woods on a snowy evening.” I laugh and wink conspiratorially. Isn’t he lucky to live with a former English major?
Apparently, my son is insensitive to his good fortune. Come to think of it, so is the rest of my family.
He ignores me, and plunges into the tragic details of Frost’s life: “His father died of toober-LO-sis, his mother died of cancer, his sister died in a mental hospital, and his son died of cal-ARA!”
Cal-ARA sounds like a diet drink. By the time I’ve processed that he means cholera, he’s launching into the untimely deaths of several more Frost relatives.
In an attempt to distract him and stave off possible potential nightmares, I ask when he’s going to get to the actual poetry. I start reciting “Nothing Gold Can Stay.” Apparently, I can crush a child’s love of learning like no one’s business.
“Shhh!” he says.
Fine. I go back to work.
“And they say Edgar Allan Poe was a tortured soul!” he suddenly exclaims.
“Good point,” I say.
“Well, Poe was also dissolute,” he adds, musingly.
“Do you know what a tortured soul is?” I ask. I decide to skip asking for the definition of dissolute.
“It means you have inner demons that make you sad,” he explains solemnly.
“Awrighty then,“ I say brightly. “Well, it sounds like you’ve done your research.”
Silence.
“Do you think I could become a famous poet?” he asks a few minutes later.
“I think you have a way with words,” I say. “But I’m beginning to think maybe you’re having too happy a childhood.”
“Yeah,” he says. “Plus, I’m planning on being a Navy Seal.”
“OK.” I say, looking at his size two Zig-tech sneakers dangling from the stool and trying to imagine that far into the future. “Maybe you could be both,” I suggest. I’ve never been a fan of “The Road Not Taken.”
“Maybe,” he says, switching from Poets.org to Minecraft and hoping I won’t notice.
“Hey Mommy,” he says. “Did you know that the school’s hot dogs bounce when they hit the floor?”
And so we returned from the world of poetry.
