Little Boy.

I see a little boy, round and rosy-faced trailing his mother down the concourse to their gate. he turns suddenly, shifting his stance, bringing his rolling Thomas the Tank Engine suitcase to his front as he faces backwards and continues to stumble on. He has found a new trick and he is excelling at it. Fearless he lets the oncoming path remain a mystery until it has passed and every new sight is in hindsight. From his vantage point everything is tall; adventure looms above him and wraps around him from every angle. There are no concerns for what dangers may lie ahead. he is beaming with pride with a mischievous twinkle to his grin. "can you do this?" he inquires, wide eyes staring up to meet his mother's loving gaze. He is not a baby anymore, but he is not yet a boy.  Androgynous and angelic still, with a mop of thick ashy blonde hair meeting his eyelashes across his face and brushing the collar of his little coat in the back. he is teetering on the precarious cusp between sexless toddler and becoming a real boy.

They pass me sitting silently, jaded and fatigued. For just a moment I was captivated, but that too has passed. Cynical as I can be, my own bitterness begins to project itself upon someone's seraphic little son. I want to snatch him up and hold him in suspended animation, before he crosses the inevitable line that takes his actions from innocent to self-aware intentions. But its too late; not for him perhaps, but for me. In my mind, I have already decided; his fate is sealed. Someday those delicate hands, tender eyes and gentle smile will all be used sometimes creatively, sometimes forcefully, sometimes defiantly, and often times even earnestly, on a girl.

Someday, in his name: phones will be watched closely. diary pages will fill. friends will gather to assure "he doesn't deserve you anyway." Someday he will cause and be cursed by lust and longing, pain and pining, confusion and confession. I am sure of this, because even the good ones break hearts.