Like sunlight through the clouds it breaks her thoughts.
Although she scoffs, the memory won’t let go:
The 80s, and those blasted school reports,
Like Difficult to teach. Frustrating. Slow.
Her sternness shocked to bluster by his tears:
“Well, you’re just wired differently. Come, come.”
(Yes, granted, not the best of her ideas:
“I’m wired? Like a robot?! Brilliant, Mum!”)
But in the end, those wires saved their skins -
The jet’s, and his - all hidden in plain sight.
And still they give and give: his mile-wide grins,
His love of books, his knack for doing right,
His staggering capacity for joy.
Her treasure trove, she thinks. Her gold-wired boy.