What Comes from the Garden

It’s Teacher Appreciation Day, and Ronan (dear Lord, please bless this child) jumps out of the minivan clutching his aluminum-wrapped pink garden roses for his teacher. 

His shoelaces wither helplessly on either side of his shoes, 
His hand-me-down trousers are too short, 
His hair is meticulously parted on the wrong side, 
Causing a cowlick Alfalfa would have envied. 

With his free hand, he pulls his tattered backpack over his shoulder, 
Looks back, 
And gives his mother the auld wink. 

These are the stolen images that define us. 
Shiny, pink, ragged, unkempt, homemade. 
Mine.