MYSTERY

Where does it come from?

The impish smile, the knowing look,

The turn of phrase that makes me smile

Wondering what goes on

Beneath the curly hair,

Behind the deep, brown eyes that dance?

He laughs with each coin slipping

Through the slot of his small tin bank

Counting each one, not by denomination,

Separately, as if every coin is special.

Once I helped him with his sweater or

Buckled him in a car seat.

Now he looks at me with age-old disdain.

Calmly he states: “I can do it”. 

My grandson has reached the ripe-old age of five.