As sixth years we got rotated to the balcony.
We could fit up there now, us top boys. 
The rest of us, as at 16 most kids did,
had dropped out, to train for or take jobs. 
Below me, the first years in short pants 
and itchy ties filtered into the back rows 
and felt (oh, I remembered) tiny. Rising 
to mouth the Lord's Prayer, finding myself 
gripping the rail to not think of falling, 
or of which little boy might break my fall,
I heard my voice, as I hadn't since I was 
one of them, saying aloud the words. 
                                                    
All year (beneath my breath), I asked, 
sometimes, if I—not jumped, exactly—
if, God, I just let myself lean too far—
if the thrill of falling—the relief at falling—
might not be what was meant by grace. 
The way, surrendering to gravity, 
a raindrop fattens on the tree limb 
and it brightens. It hangs full. 
I recall, still, how all that year 
I leaned and kept leaning, as if, 
by something like grace, held 
cupped; in a stay of heartbeat 
between thy will be done 
and on earth as it is in heaven.
                        

“I promise to take you everywhere, my lovely child, and then to leave you.” 
	—Max Apple, “Bridgings”
 
We glimpse the stone hump of the bridge, and you
clamber across the footpath's turns, through rocks
and scrub brush, to peer from the overlook
and spy the river. Be careful, I call,
making my slower way—though more to hail
you than in warning; we trust each other,
we two; and you wave, hallooing back. When
I reach you, you're rested, and I might wish
I were less short-breathed. But yes, one hill left,
since look, that glint's the river, and across
the bridge the city, and this bench, to sit
flank to shoulder, in pledge of steadiness.
 
How long have we been walking now, sweetheart,
I ask, is it twelve years? Sixteen, daddy,
you say, knowing I'm teasing and must know.
Oddly, though, I’ve begun to forget things.
When we set out, wasn't someone with us,
your mom, I must mean? And didn’t I come
this way once with my parents? Remember,
darling, I ask instead, how I'd carry
you sometimes? You laugh. And there was a dog,
you say. Trixie! I say back. You'd lurch off
after her. I had to catch hold of you,
till you learned that where we led, she'd follow.
 
We’re walking again, in step, side by side.
We'll get there by my half-birthday, bet you,
you say, without impatience: the way down
is sunlit, our stride a strong, shared heartbeat…
But then as the bridge draws closer, your pace
starts to flag. On the other side there are
so many roads, and you know without talk
of it that I will be done with leading—
that we won't always favor the same ones;
which is fine, except for the maze they'll be,
and this fear you can't say, that our windings
may not much meet. Oh, it’ll be fine, love,
I tell you without words—with smiles; a hand
reached wide behind me. I know this journey;
I’ve come this way, and there is no other.

Still, for a bit, what say we don’t cross yet?
We’ll look only, and count all the coppery
swift colors in the slapping water—
and loll upslope to share our sandwiches—
puttering by the bend where the wildflowers
flutter—to twine our two sprigs of them. Then,
when it’s time, I'll nod back once and go; not
stopping, or slowed to see; till behind me
I'll hear the sturdy engine of your breath.