Breakfast Sandwich
There is a moment
when I walk out into the early morning light
in my pajamas and robe
to offer my son's friend
a fried egg sandwich
as he waits in the car before school.
He looks up from his phone,
and his whole face alights.
In that moment,
I see the nine year old boy
I once knew –
his glasses and basketball shorts,
his humor and gym shoes,
his arms and legs, gangly –
not the muscles that ripple
under his t-shirt today.
And I see the adolescent, navigating
the barrage of texts that have just come in
and the video on instagram
and the strength it takes to walk into
high school –
more strength than the weights he lifted that morning.
I remember myself at sixteen and wonder:
how much armor did I put on
to make it through the halls?
It's not easy to be sixteen
at any time, let alone today.
I long to tell him that.
Instead, I walk back into the house and
offer him a silent blessing as he begins
his day: “Please life, be kind.”
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