Somehow, My Baby Is Turning 13
I look at you, son, standing eye to eye, and I want to say I can’t believe you’re turning 13 . . . but I can. You blew out your candles last night, turned around, hoisted me into the air in front of everyone, and high-fived me. You passed me this year, just slightly taller. We grin and laugh about it, but in my heart I think, I’m so glad you’re growing kind, too. That you use your strength to lift heavy boxes and to carry your baby sister. Your blonde hair, dirtier now than the white-gold I remember, is waving and curling around your ears. I see your bald head as a baby, and tears trickle down my cheeks as I giggle and remember how I waited two years for your hair to grow. When it did, I didn’t want to cut a single one of those dancing curls. I still have some of them in a plastic bag tucked in a box in the attic. B ut it’s your smile that catches me, your wide grin stretching across your face, and your curls are like rays of sunshine beaming from that smile.