What comes around

The windows are finally open and I can hear the jingle of BBs in his pocket and the sound of the gun cocking. The rhythmic clicking as he fires over and over. 

My teenager, my young man, my grown up little boy is shooting at a plastic bottle lodged in the old dogwood. Just like he did when he was eleven and he had a buzz cut, crooked teeth, a generous smile and spontaneous hugs for me.

Only now there is long hair, persistent scruff, a know-it-all attitude and closed doors.

I'm in mourning. Deep soulful punch in the gut pain.
I'm grasping at straws.
Searching for a connection.
I want it back.

In the morning when I stand before the mirror
In the car when I arrive but don't remember getting there
At night in my dreams..

I'm thinking of all the things I still have to teach him.
All the things I want to tell him.
All the ways I should have done it better.

He is mine and for that I pay the price now.
Born an old soul.
Connected to something bigger.
I knew this time would come.

Everyone says "It comes back around."
I know it will.
But not in the same way
When it was just my boy and me.