Marrakech: and a tale of not being ready

I’m not ready.  No, I’m not ready for him to be so big. 
I’m not sure that I know how to do this. 

I’m not ready for his back talk. 
Or the way he says, Whatever, sometimes when I’m scolding him. 
I’m not ready for his jokes about smoking or his sleeping until noon.
For all those things I’ve seen – until now - only in movies.  

I’m not ready for his voice, so deep now. 
And I’m not ready for his young man's laugh. 
Or for his new walk, a kind of saunter with hands stuffed in his pockets. 

And I’m certainly not ready for the way he feels when I hold him in my arms. 
Like he fills up all the space.  Like he could run me over.
 And I couldn’t catch him, or save him, if I had to


But mostly, I’m not ready, not yet, to let him go.  

I can’t do this.  I'm not sure, I can do this. 
I don’t know how.   

(Please.  Please let him still see me– for just a while longer -- when I look in his eyes.)


Note: Subscribe to My Marrakesh here.  Or look at my new Pinterest boards here.