The other day I came across
A photograph of long ago,
A little boy with golden hair,
A sled, a shovel, a field of snow.
This reflection smiling from the past,
Conjured sights and sounds of long lost days,
Of chubby legs and mounds of hair,
All things change, but memory stays.
The child is gone, the man remains,
No scattered blocks, no Tonka toy,
To a mother change is bittersweet,
For in my heart dwell man and boy.
I’m grateful for the way you’ve grown,
For the one emerged, who’ standing here.
It is the man of whom I’m proud,
The boy belongs to yesteryear.
Your Dad and I would like to claim
The credit for a job well done.
But it may be that in spite of us,
We’re honored by what you’ve become.
I’ve no criticism of you, son,
Just a gentle word to pass along,
Never trade the truth, keep an open mind,
And what you dream is where you belong.
And when the value of my days,
Is recorded in each memories blur,
Count a few kind deeds I’ve managed here,
And Christopher,… and Christopher.
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