by Troy Cady
You are tiny cars looping and
dodging orange rubber, popping snakes;
piggy squeals and mousy squeaks;
slobber and smiles.
You are sticks and smeared cheeks,
collected stones and colored sheets.
3D angels in paper and green,
taped or glued, cut jagged and seamed.
Holey jeans and stripped knees,
scraped hands, bruised arms,
stitched head, and bundled charm.
You are feet on pedals—
pushing with deep grunts—
then off, then on (keep going!)—
staggering, and weaving, biking a straight curve—
then gaining force, racing,
and cheering, “YEAH! I DID IT!”
The days inhale and exhale and,
as time breathes steady,
your lungs grow larger,
your great heart younger.
You are older now than you have ever been
but you are more child than the day you were born.
When I grow up, I want to be just like my boy.
You are me and I am you.