Two refurbishments. Four moves.
Seven years.

There have been seven summers since,
But none that smouldered
Like that one: a summer to celebrate
Rather than mourn.

Now, I sit here alone, writing with
Aged hands, roughened by those
Seven winters since this was first
Second home.

I want to tell him about this –
That this will happen to him,
And that it won’t be as hard as
He expects – but in seven years,
He will still be a child, with
Far more immediate worries.

I want to tell him about that, too:
About all he will have to cope with, and
How not to repeat my mistakes.
But even if I could make him understand,
He will live his life, not mine, and
Be shaped into him, not me.

So, in seven years, I will be there
To help him to take it as it comes,
And to tell him what I wish
Someone had told me:
It will not always be like this.

08/30/2010

Posted on 09/01/2010
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