His Last Night Home

I remember when he was a little boy,
running down the lane,
then turning to look back at me.
We were always together, he and I,
even when it didn’t seem so fun
at the time, innumerable bedtimes,
bathtimes, getting ready for school.
I remember when I sat on him so
he would not run out into the
rain, his backpack stuffed with
a box of Raisin Bran to keep
him fed during his adventures
into the big world.
Now he’s seen a lot more of the
big world, and he is off with his
friends, drinking the alcoholic
version of Rookie Magic, the milkshake
we drank so many times at the Red
Robin next to the Safeway
when he was a little boy.
He’s not a little boy anymore,
towering over me; tomorrow he
will lean way over to give me a hug
good-bye.