s o n

When did you start saying

macaroni

instead of mamy-yammies?

When was the last

time you said it wrong in your most

right and baby way?

Who corrected you?

And when did I last carry you?

When did you last

wrap your little arms around

my neck

and dig your nose into my hair

telling me I smell like sunflowers?

When was the last time

you rode the grocery store

penny horse,

begging me to slow down,

to stop

so you could giggle through

the one-minute ride of your life?

Did I let you ride it the last

time you asked?

Did I dig for the penny, or say,

“Maybe next time”?

When was the last time

you asked me to cuddle

and listen to our lullaby playlist?

Now audiobooks and

your music put you to sleep.

By the way, did you delete

our playlist from the library?

I tried to find it the other night

to fall asleep.

It was gone.

I’ll piece it back together

like memories of bedtime routines—

toothpaste everywhere,

bed bugs,

made up stories,

and Jelly Giraffe.

Now Jelly sits in a drawer.

I see him

when I put your socks away.

His eyes meet mine

full of memory—

your tiny voice,

squishy snuggles,

your little-ness.

Now your voice cracks—

the sound of a man

breaking through

a face caught between

boy and teen.

I stepped on a Lego.

Must’ve fallen from one of your sets,

maybe knocked loose

as you grabbed your

headphones.

I almost vacuumed

it up, dusty beneath my foot.

I would’ve, once.

You wouldn't have missed it.

But not now.

Not with the thief of time

on my heels.

An old photo memory popped up

today—

the roundness of your face,

chubby knuckles.

Next photo

was yesterday.

Sharp cheekbones.

Angles.

Eyes of wonder.

Curiosity.

Framed now by a strong brow—

a new sense of knowing.

Fresh cut you finally

care to style.

When was the last time

I mohawked your hair with bubble bath?

We laughed

at the silliness of it all—

soap castles

sliding down your forehead.

When was the last time you

let me pick your clothes?

Buzz Lightyear

replaced with graphic tees

and opinions.

But you are still gentle,

kind,

and loving—

even between the eye-rolls

and long sighs.

You’re still silly,

but sharper now.

Your wit and humor rival mine.

You laugh at things

you didn’t used to *get*

Since when?

I mourn the whimsy,

the wide-eyed wonder.

Questions have gotten

more difficult to answer,

more jarring.

In many ways, we are learning together.

You’ve always been my greatest teacher.

I used to be your everything.

Somewhere in there

is the little boy

who thought I hung the moon.

Sometimes I think—hope—you still

believe that I did.

I still catch glimpses

of that twinkle when you

look at me,

but now it flickers

through deepening eyes.

And sometimes

I still catch that little boy

in moments of softness,

in the way laughter escapes you

so intensely

it turns back into a giggle.

And suddenly I am with you again

at two,

six,

seven (see what I did there)—

and how are we here?

But you are finding your own

way,

and I would have it no other way.

I see glimpses of the man emerging—

walking the line

between playfulness and steady,

chaos and calm,

‘tude and chill,

dependence and strength.

You are figuring it out

and I have the gift

of witnessing

the unfolding of it all.

And somewhere between Legos and

cracked voices

and forgotten lullabies—

a little boy is disappearing,

and a man is beginning.