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Seven Years, part 1: August
by Richard VinceTwo refurbishments. Four moves.
Seven years.
There have been seven summers since,
But none that smouldered
Like that one: a summer to celebrate
Rather than mourn.
Now, I sit here alone, writing with
Aged hands, roughened by those
Seven winters since this was first
Second home.
I want to tell him about this –
That this will happen to him,
And that it won’t be as hard as
He expects – but in seven years,
He will still be a child, with
Far more immediate worries.
I want to tell him about that, too:
About all he will have to cope with, and
How not to repeat my mistakes.
But even if I could make him understand,
He will live his life, not mine, and
Be shaped into him, not me.
So, in seven years, I will be there
To help him to take it as it comes,
And to tell him what I wish
Someone had told me:
It will not always be like this.
08/30/2010 Posted on 09/01/2010
Copyright © 2024 Richard Vince
| Member Comments on this Poem |
| Posted by George Hoerner on 09/01/10 at 12:31 AM This sounds like Paul Simon and the following -
And I know a fa-ther
Who had a son
He longed to tell him all the reasons
For the things he'd done
He came a long way
Just to explain
He kissed his boy as he lay sleeping
Then he turned around and headed home again
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| Posted by Amy Niggel on 09/01/10 at 12:50 AM Makes me think of my little ones, and all the growing up they will do over the years to come. Its scary and exciting and it all goes by far too quickly for us even though it feels like an eternity to them. |
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