Birds of Paradise
Leah Browning
In the months since I’ve seen him,
he’s grown a full beard and had his hair
cut in a different style, so when he materializes
outside the mechanized glass doors
barricading the secured area of the airport
in a brown corduroy trucker jacket
with a faux-sheepskin lining,
it takes me a moment to recognize him
amongst the other passengers flowing
past me on the way toward the baggage claim.
He is no longer my son in that moment
but a man I don’t know, a stranger,
striding toward me as anyone might,
as if our relationship up to this point
has been erased from both our memories
and we are two tenderhearted adults meeting
for the first time and falling unexpectedly
into a kind of love, and so I embrace and take him
home with me, the car sailing through the dark past
the landscape of palm trees and unseasonable flowers.