To My Son

Your little boy heart was open.
Words came tumbling out,
And I listened and guided
And delighted
In the tenderness,
The spontaneity,
The inventiveness
Of your mind.
Mother and son—so close.

Your growing up heart
Seems padlocked.
You are silent,
Pre-occupied.
And I timidly knock. . .
Missing you,
Wondering, longing
To know the workings
Of your mind.
Must growing up
Mean growing away?

Later, may I come again–
Not to reclaim the past,
Not to probe the present,
But as a guest and friend
To listen,
To interact,
To enjoy
Bringing love that also grows?

By Linda Lane Gage, 1979