My son asks me many things every day: a litany of... • sometimes a great notion.

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My son asks me many things
every day: a litany of curiosity.
He is very nearly three, and that is
what he is supposed to be doing,
all the books say.
But what they don’t say
is what the answers are;
I figured I would know by now,
being a fully grown real life adult and all.

But some questions can’t be answered,
for various reasons, practical and otherwise,
and those are the ones he tends to ask the most:
How come there are books?
Why does dying happen?
Why is Mommy talking mean to you?
Monsters aren’t in real life, right?

And I don’t know. Not everything anyway.
But here is my best guess:
that not everything has an answer or makes sense,
not at 3 or 33, and maybe not ever,
but we are here together now
and I’m glad you have so many questions -
we’ll figure out the answers we can
and just make up the rest.
That’s what people do.

Though I also think wait until it’s your turn, mister
and you are expected to have the answers
with your own son’s eyes upon you
and how it feels to realize that nobody knows
much of anything really,
even when they sound as if they do
(especially then)
that we are all afraid of being found out
and struggling to make sense of the universe
and the best that we can do, in the end,
is try and create some kind of meaning for ourselves
piece it together out of memories, intentions, and love
just to try and feel
a little less small and lonely.

I don’t tell him all of this, of course.
He’s only nearly three after all -
the world is still his endless wonder;
and so may he have that awe forever,
this tired father’s fervant wish.