My son has grown piece by piece.
First the arms, pulled long like taffy.
Then the feet, in two laced up boats.
He pedals by, his knees like tennis balls,
I wonder if it hurts, all that sudden density.
I know it hurts to look.
Watching from the window, what’s next?
Eyebrows thickening like caterpillars,
mountain ranges of knuckles.
His body carries on despite his embarrassment,
clusters of cells waiting to be called up
like obedient soldiers.
Even the earlobes, those quiet little nobodies,
have their moment.
My son has grown piece by piece.
And finally, his heart
of which I lay claim
to a smaller
and smaller share.
Published in Monkey Flower
Photo by Tim Graf on Unsplash