Simple Birds

I used to draw them—simple birds,

little marks that looked like flight.

Now I can't get the wings right.

My nephew asked if I could help

with homework, said I was good once.

I told him sure and picked up a pencil.

Made a line. Erased it. Tried again.

The graphite built up on my knuckle,

a dark smudge that wouldn't come clean.

He watched me fail for three full minutes,

then asked his mom if she could help instead.

She took the pencil like it might break,

like something had snapped inside of me

that couldn't be fixed by sharpening.

Maybe she knew something I didn't.