Ryan at Eight

I recently visited London, and my grandson there is now in his 2nd year of university. Yesterday he celebrated his 20th birthday but I remember the boy he was.

Ryan at Eight

Backlit with the wonders

of his world - inchworms, trains,

stink bugs, fresh rain - 

his open face

disappears in increments

as boys in upper grades slip him

streetwise wisdom

on the playground, snigger profanity,

swear sotto voce.

Some of this he shares with his Gran.

"They say Tom's mom is a lush."

A frown frames his question,

"What, exactly, is that?"

Then the worried follow-up, "If you drink

wine at dinner and beer in the pub,

is that too much?"

But his grownup mien,

the one without a smile, doesn't hold

in London's Underground. He leans

toward the tunnel,

eyes alive as sparks on the rail,

little boy grin as he spots a headlight

advancing through the lampblack,

a rush of wind ruffling his hair.

I blink and a young man stands waiting.

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor