This Is My Son

I touch hair, thick, dark, downy new.
This is my infant son.
This is his rather large nose which seems so right on his wrinkled face.
I joke that it caught in the womb and delayed his passage into the world.
His father cries unabashedly, a rarity, because there is no third cleft.
Instead, a protuberance heralding his only boy.
So unexpected but joyously welcomed in the wake of 'wishful hoping.'
We got what we wanted.
This day is a pleasure.

I touch hair, thick, dark, full of curls.
This is my toddler son.
These are the sturdy legs which cut short a safe baby existence for a wanderer.
I laugh at how he never crawled but went from a stilted bug to an upright walker.
His father crows proudly, many times over, that his boy took off at ten months.
Perhaps he will be a football player.
His sisters are thrilled to chase and be chased by their little brother.
We have what we wanted.
This stage is such fun.

I touch hair, thick, dark, damp at the neck.
This is my young son.
These are the tears which fall like an endless salty rain when he learns his cousins died.
I weep along with him as the safety of his childhood mantle cracks at his feet.
His father holds back, for the moment, concerned at the possible emotional cost.
It is okay for his small boy to fall apart.
All of us will be right there to tenderly put him back together.
We never wanted such tragedy.
This chapter is endless.

I touch hair, thick, dark, long and wavy.
This is my adolescent son.
These are his expressive brown eyes which alternate good humor and frustration.
I worry over him as we pray and read together under the cover of each gifted night.
His father hugs and kisses, always there, glad to be a part of this time.
How he so loves his good boy.
Our little band is moving along in the aftermath.
We need to want again.
This is rebuilding.

I touch hair, thick, dark, closely cropped.
This is my teenage son.
This is one of the suddenly enormous feet which finally eclipsed mine as the longest.
I roll my eyes at his propensity to argue every little nothing with his similar mother.
His father knows the angst, they are men, that drives his boy to mayhem.
But his antics are not okay.
The growing third child loudly pronounces his presence.
We want him to learn silence.
These years are wild.

I touch hair, thick, dark, product enhanced.
This is my college son.
These are the well-shaped ears which hear the significant beating of his own pounding drum.
I hold my breath against the lapping waves of concern holding my anxious heart hostage.
His father reminds the boy, he knows, about drinking and girls and grades.
Trips for games come soon.
Who knows if student loans will bear fruit in this one?
We need him to want this.
This time is costly.

I touch hair, thick, dark, in place.
This is my married son.
This is the broad expanse of masculine shoulders which will comfort his partner in life.
I toast to the transfer of power and personality that signal the end of my main job.
His father understands, all too well, the burden his boy will now shoulder.
Did he prepare him enough?
The reception delivers every promised drop of celebration.
He got what he wanted.
This day is bittersweet.

I reach for hair, thick, dark, but it is not there.
This is my long-distance son.
These are the heavy duty miles between us which separate the physical and the emotional.
I sigh under the sure knowledge that his busy life demands him to be there and present.
His father accepts it, what else can he do, missing the boy who is now all man.
Technology and trips sustain them.
At least he doesn't blame us entirely in the raising for his faults.
We had what we wanted.
This here is our now.