From the start, I hoped to instill a bit
of Southern manners at our house.
Our five-year old’s honorifics lasted a day.  

Twenty-five years later,
our son quietly works whatever room
and engages each person.   

He cradles his cat up in his arms
and coaxes her outside
and guards her against hawks.  

At his sister’s wedding, he accompanies his toast
with props like overalls and Christmas stockings,
a bit of well-timed comedy to lighten the night.  

His pep talk and hands-in huddle
before a big sale unites and energizes
his volunteer team. He sets aside titles
he knows particular customers will appreciate.  

He dresses for his workday
in vintage sweaters and vests
regardless of the weather,
tweed jackets for board meetings.  

In a typical week, he may send
a bouquet in apology, make
a hospital visit or two, or honor
a volunteer with a pizza party.  

Without fail, he repeats himself
to seniors
(even his parents!)
and handwrites thank you notes.  

A writer himself, he chronicles his year
of managing the library’s used bookstore.
He convinced me to join the Italian Table
and takes his dad to basketball games.  

Back in the day, my mother
would introduce me
even when I was an adult by saying
I never caused her any trouble.  

People we barely know
brighten our lives with their comments
about our son. Now that he is thirty, my wish
is that he keeps a bit of that glow for himself.