To the Boy

            I’m going to have a little one, someday.  I know it.  Shirtless and darting around on dirty toes, I see his diapered form-- my little boy.  His shoulder blades will curve like unborn wings propelling him into infinity and beyond.  He will carry himself, from his dark eyelashes to curvy belly with mischief, wonder, and curiosity.  My heart grabs inside when I imagine you.  My son, you will have a beautiful mind.  You will be courageous, adventurous, and never miss humour.  You'll gift me with discreet kisses when no one is looking; but occasionally even when they are.  Your appetite for knowledge will be insatiable; I will spend our days answering your questions and stopping you from electrocution as you disassemble my hairdryer.  You’ll reflect your father; from his sturdy stance to the way he keeps a watchful eye out for me.  

Some days you’ll fall down.  With bloodied knees and bits of gravel embedded in your palms, with slumped shoulders you’ll come to me, ashamed of your hurt.  I’ll scoop you up, my baby, and set you into a warm bath.  The bubbles will nearly hide your small stature, and I’ll put a plop of foam on your head to make you laugh.  The muddy tears from your blushed cheeks I’ll wipe away with a washrag, and try my best to be gentle as I clean your scrapes.  I’ll help you not fear water, but you’ll still cling to me as I pour cupfuls over your soapy head to rinse the suds from your hair.  Ever speculative, you'll call the purpose into question, yet not doubt my intent.  An hour may pass.  I'll watch you race plastic boats around turbulent bath waters.  I'll wonder at your attentiveness, coexisting with your wandering imagination. The water will cool, and I’ll wrap a towel around your goose bumped skin and briskly dry your pink body.  Maybe we’ll style your hair with mousse.  Dad will not be amused.  We’ll think it’s hilarious.

           Boy, I cannot wait to meet you.