Cody

For Cody, age 3

As I look at you, little man, sleeping in your
new white bed, adorned with railings of gold, I
notice how it fits you perfectly.

I gaze on skin like fine leather, tanned only by endless
summer days and the childish laughter that
accompanied your little boy games.

Your white t-shirt, imprinted with a love of the pooh bear,
somehow spoke to me of ungotten baseball caps and
weathered gloves.

Your size four levis tell no tales of trees climbed,
or knees skinned, but I know that
you once, not very long ago, did these things.

And these tiny little feet, covered with socks so
pure and white, tell me that once you ran through
mud puddles and new grass, and that you
never really cared for shoes.

And last of all, a smile comes to me as I look on huge brown
eyes,
now closed in peaceful eternal sleep,
because I know that once they sparkled and danced, and
followed mischief wherever they could.

And I wonder, "What were you like, little man?"
I think I already know.