The interruption can’t be helped.  Hasty gathering
of coat, presents, the child’s overnight bag.  
It’s a thirty minute drive to the treatment center;
passes can be denied if the child is brought back late.

I take a quick, impulsive snapshot of the goodbyes:

Mother and son crumple
into each other, 
arms sheathe him,
fingers spread wide across his back.
Her eyes, glazed with fatigue, stare
at the floor.  The father’s face
is taut and turned away,
his left hand a muted fist.  Remnants

of Christmas dinner are paused on the table, while
their guests strain to look anywhere else.  I down
the last vestige of my wine, unsettled
by what I have just captured.  This image,
with its web of heartache, is not a candidate
for any family photo album.  Yet, I can’t press delete,
can’t deny the visceral tug.  I am a corn spider, wrapping
and wrapping its silk around a moth.