Cradle to Grave (April 2009)

From Cradle to Grave

As an infant, you softened my granite heart, gurgling in your own
Child-speak of half-formed words, blinking at the light, and
Gazing out at your tiny world. Your innocence brought you many fleeting friends in
Supermarkets, doctor’s surgeries, and grassy parks; secretly,
I reveled in their cooing faces,
Knowing that you were mine.

And then you left me. You were grown, a boy of barely four, with school tie, satchel
And polished schoolboy shoes.
I longed for four o’clock, yearned for each weekday afternoon,
For your return and the sweet smell of little boy. Every day you left me
For a little longer, and traveled one step further away.

At eleven, you became suddenly, overnight, a little man. You were
Serious, distant, thoughtful, selfishly independent. And though I saw you through a
Father’s hopeful eyes,
You were less like me than I had hoped. A stranger.

By fifteen, you were sullen, a noiseless presence, everywhere, yet nowhere.
I craved for the faraway indifference of your eleven year-old self, longed for the little boy
Who filled the house with chortling, boyish sounds.

And then you left me. You were gone, at nineteen, dead, too far from
A doctor’s healing hands, off abroad, pining for adventure and a
Young man’s dream. And I?
Left with memories of that little boy,
From the cradle to the grave.
My lips murmur half-formed words, and
My granite heart is crumbling.