SOFT SCAR

My son’s pain overflows today
falls like a fountain into the pool of my arms.
I give him my words
to hold onto in the night
now she is no longer there.
He asks, do I think he is immature.
If he means is he bitter like unripened fruit,
the answer is no.
But if maturity means
to have already been dissected
by the knife of experience,
then yes, he is immature.
I look at the softness of his young heart
and cut another scar in mine.