My Beautiful Boy

The room is quiet; the machines have been turned off. I hold my son's still-warm hand. I close my eyes and hear my little boy's words, "Look, mama, look, mama." He smiles at me and holds his prize, a fuzzy caterpillar. At sixteen, too cool to say, "look, mama," he gives me a wink when he has Jessica's hand in his. Yesterday, doing wheelies on his motorcycle, "Look, mama, look, mama." The front wheel hangs in the air, and instead of hitting the road in front of him, it tips backward. His unhelmeted head hits the pavement with a sickening thud. "I don't need a helmet, ma. I'm just popping a few wheelies." Those were the last words I heard my son speak. I close my eyes but open them immediately; all I can see is his head hitting the pavement. Will I ever be able to close them again?