Scott was 19 the year he moved out. I wondered
how he would get all the Star Trek posters off the wall.
But I knew he would.
As morning beamed through translucence
of blue organza, his crib stalled
in the west corner,
sprinkled the tinkle-tinkle of "Old MacDonald Had a Farm"
as pink sheep and blue cows on strings
meandered in an endless circuit.
Sniffing the fresh scent of red clay, I unearthed
dirt-biked jeans in Size 10 heaped by the hamper
in the north corner,
Lego bricks shaping into a space station,
orchestrated by a soundtrack from his imagination.
A plastic Star Trek population readied for cosmic crises,
while their alter egos flashed life onto a screen
in the south corner,
movements mandated by swifteen fingers
on a video game pad, stroking easy victories.
Now the east door split open,
and Scott the man-child brought in boxes,
and I helped him fill them.
The room spun into barrenness, leaving empty corners and
shadowed walls spotted with Tacky Tape.
Then, in the corner of the closet, where it had fallen
escaping notice, a two-inch gray plastic Mr. Spock
begged for rescue, braving the alien world of mother-hands.
But Scott’s orange and white U-Haul had already
melted into silence,
like a 50-50 ice cream bar, swallowed on a summer night,
his Enterprise cloaked by the choking dusk of finality.
"Beam me up, Scotty!" the scream echoed.
I looked into my hands--
Mr. Spock was gone.
--10/8/1998
