That Boy / This Man

He turns around and gazes at his path.

1980. Look over there where he walked across campus in waist-deep snow. Where friends philosophized over Sunday pizza. Where the pain of being alone seemed too much to bare. Where he waved to his brother on his way to class.

1985. Look over there where he smelled legustrum for the first time. Where the trumpet vines climbed into the trees outside their apartment door. Where he lay curled up in bed recovering from cancer. Where their neighbor began to die from AIDS.

1990. Look over there where they moved into the house under the Oak trees. Where they planted a few of their own. Where the boy was born. Where he stood at the picnic table arranging bluebonnets in the dappled light.

1995. Look over there where he awoke one night to the terror of not finding a job. Where he got one in Houston. Where the boy felt the heartbreak of his first lost balloon. Where he soon started flying to Houston alone.

2000. Look over there where he coded downtown until the bubble burst. Where he worked from home with a prairie outside his window. Where muddy boots got left by the door. Where the boy came home one day holding a broken arm.

2005. And oh my, look over there where she came into his life. Where the music played as they stood by the ponds with peacocks in the trees. Where the boy started playing trombone. And now where all of the sudden he is almost grown.

Look at these things. Look at those years. After all that, why is it that deep inside he is still the four year old boy who rode to pick up his little brother from two year old nursery school?

For heaven's sake, why is he that boy instead of this man?

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