Changing of A Boy

Changing of A Boy


He’s changing, not quite every day I notice something different.

He’s changing, today he showered and dressed nicely and I found him splayed on his bed doing his homework for Lost Colony Cotillion.

He’s changing, those pudgy baby feet that I loved to paint and capture on paper are longer than my own now.

He’s changing, his smooth skin has the slightest smattering of bumps and he examines them ever so closely.

He’s changing, he wets and brushes his hair each morning, carefully grooming though I’m not sure the goal.

He’s changing, he doesn’t yell and stomp or cry so much anymore, he turns inward and you must really be watching to notice.

He’s changing, his life is not divulged to me, his best friend, in the same old way as I have been replaced by boys his own age.

He’s changing, he scoffs at my suggestions and prefers to play basketball in the evenings with Daddy rather than snuggling with his Mama.

He’s changing, the little boy who walked ever so carefully and cried if the room was too loud, moves confidently within a crowd now.

He’s changing, this firstborn son of mine is nearly a teenager and I could weep with the thought of it.

He’s changing, the blond locks turn darker each year and his features are less round and more angular, his face lovely.

He’s changing, he’s always been tender hearted and yet, he has grown into a refined sensitive being whose heart shall always be worn on his sleeve.

Perhaps he’s not changing so much after all.

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