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Gold Wires

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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.