Fatherhood
I watched as my son leapt,
Arms following the oil-weathered ball
As it coasted in an arch just over my extended reach
Through the slightly misshapen, flaking hoop.
His bright hazel eyes looked up at me (but no so far as
before)
Through his thick brown mop of young hair.
An uninhibited smile stretched full, revealing
His boyish dimples, yet a man’s voice,
Cracked with elation, reaches my ears.
This came sooner than I thought it would
I thought it impossible to be true, but then
I felt the stiffness in my joints as I stared at him,
Hopping in place on fresh, lightly haired knees.
With a heart splitting between joy and sorrow,
I held out the ball to my son, waiting for his grasp.
Game.
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