I’M THE AUTHOR OF THIS MAN’S HISTORY.
Beside me, he inhales
And exhales twice as long
Sturdy, nimble feet, small thorn scratches, raced so many miles today; now small and still, barely tucked under my leg for warmth
Slender and muscular runner’s legs like his dad’s, jumped many pretend buildings today; now pulled in close like the baby I used to hold
Long, warm arms and little hands with grass-stained nails, teased and swatted sisters today, now comfort one worn, white, floppy bunny
Wide shoulders and chest with new football muscles, tackled and powered through today, now quietly growing in peace
Narrow face, good lines, sticky candy spots and silky toe-head hair, learned and watched and yelled and talked today; now blue eyes are hiding and the old soul is silent.
A man as a child, in my charge to get him there whole, confident, God-fearing, lovable, respectable
I’m the author of this man’s history.
Just some thoughts (well, a poem of sorts, actually) while watching my son sleep. Considering the world today and what a huge job it is to raise a son…how a broken one can grow into a man that will hurt himself and others, cause so much destruction and heartache, tearing things down instead of building them up. But that same son, nurtured and given a soft place to fall at home, a dad to teach him courage and a mother who shows him what a good woman is, can change the world.
Let me know what you think.