bless his heart (a poem)

My son
stares at my scalp
the way you might look
at a storm cloud that
shouldn’t be there
on a summer day.

He says it softly,
like a secret folded in two—
“Mom, can you wear your wig
when we go out?”

Not because he’s ashamed.
But because he knows
the world doesn’t hold gentle
the way he does.
He’s already learned
that people whisper
like wind through locked windows,
and their glances can bruise
more than fists.

He doesn’t want
his mother to be the story
they laugh about in line,
the moment someone nudges
a friend and nods
in my direction.

He is tender,
protective,
just a boy
with the soul of a guardian.
Bless his heart
for loving so fiercely
in a world that taught him fear
before it taught him
compassion wins.

One day,
I hope the world is kinder
than he expects.
But for now,
I tuck his worry
behind my ears,
slip on the wig,
and hold his hand a little tighter.