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 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.