The Unfortunate Adult
Our hands press upon cold glass
the difference in years
all too clear
his, tiny- still growing,
still learning,
many years of exploring
still to come.
Mine, bigger, already worn
tired, from years of work
many more, still to come.
His eyes, wide, eager,
gaze with my own tired ones,
at the autumn trees,
almost bare now,
in the cold November rain
Brings to me memories
of music, long since dead.
Like the leaves, withering,
bracing for an early arctic blast.
This world has changed so much
I fear what lies ahead,
in the cold coming months
and the distant future.
But I hide my fears from him
Just smile,
while he babbles,
his toddler musings.
The height of his worries
amount to the devastation
of the chance of losing his blankie.
While I, the unfortunate adult
experience that avalanche
of anxieties,
that can come from
one simple moment,
one look out the window-
grown up problems,
bigger then the leaf pile
he will jump joyously in
on a brighter day.
What winter brings-
less work hours,
less paychecks,
same bills, Christmas presents
That cheery occasion
with its horrible timing.
I look at my son, and envy
his wide eyes innocence.
I wish with all of me,
I could shield him from
the curse of adulthood.
What's he thinking?
Probably just wondering
if I will finally let him have
a piece of Halloween candy.
While I'm worrying about
our present, our future,
our diets, our health,
my job, my car,
my schoolwork,
my self.
Will this, what if,
can I, will we...?
A tug on my arm,
suddenly.
He saves me again from the brink
of falling into my own head
anxiety is a bitch,
something I hope he never knows.
“Can I have candy?”
he finally asks,
and oh, what the hell,
I give in.
A mini Snickers for each of us
to fight off this
cold November rain.
