Kathryn Petruccelli

The Leap

I’ll be so bored, my son says
of the camping trip 
we are packing for. He is at an age— 
body all angle, mind blooming 
in fickle flares, like peonies, only 
in just the right combination 
of soil. I listen, quiet, so as not to scare off 

this familiar, foreign creature. A creative kid 
who instructs his younger brother 
on touch football techniques, tricks to remember 
multiples of twelve, who appreciates irony. 
He loves camping—whittling sticks 
for marshmallows, creeping past the bay laurel 
where the porcupine is hiding. 

But he has been invited, this very same 
weekend, on a sleepover with friends. 
There is sure to be trampoline 
wrestling and Oreos. He rattles off 
suggestions on how to ditch out on the trip, 
his mind careening along cerebral threads, 
a constellation of ideas. 

My own mind, not far behind, attempts 
to calculate where the best answer lies— 
Oreos or porcupines, tents or trampolines.
I know this is just the beginning
of many more such scenes. A midland 
of indecision. Vygotsky said the potential 
a learner has resides in the space between 
what they can do alone and what they can do 
with guidance. I'm unclear the point 
of convergence, limit and free reign, 
but pack the car, usher in his long, grumpy frame. 
We are always leaping 
to our next self, though it is usually much too fast 
or much too slow to be seen by the naked eye.

The two of us pitch the tent, stoke the fire,
his face softening, less stung by then.
The sky blooms black, its dark tentacles 
reaching like desire. He squints at the stars, 
finger tracing the invisible lines among them.

Back to Issue IX…