© 1994
Please don't take it personally, son,
when, not meaning to, I moan.
It's just you don't quite satisfy me
now that you are grown(compared to all those precious infant
hugs that I have known.)
I still can feel, through cotton gown,
the warmth of your soft skin.
You'd gaze into my eyes then snuggle
close under my chin,
then pat my cheek, and giggle and goo,
then do it all again.
You gave yourself so thoroughly,
I gave my life to you.
'Til your birth, I'd not known such love . . . .
it was completely new.
My heart at no time realized
you were just passing through.
So there you go, a man now.
Such a proud and handsome lad.
And everything goes well for you . . . . . . .
so how can I be sad?
Confused, I could not understand
why I should feel so bad . . . .
'Til yesterday, I saw your baby
snuggling up to you,
curling up into your chest
and you hugging him, too.
I knew then, knew with certainty —
a child's love is God's glue.
I'm proud of you.
You know it's true.
I positively glow.
As an equal, as a friend,
I admire and love you so.
But how can I pretend there's not some
emptiness in my soul?
There's something missing when we meet,
a lack of some alloy.
Those hugs that used to bind us tightly
serve now vaguely to annoy.
I realize what our problem is . . . . . . .
I miss my little boy.
