Man in Transition

I stare at the face in the mirror. The one everyone else sees, but I can only glance at. The skin once smooth now creased with a million smiles and a thousand furrowed brows. There is very little boy left in that face. The boy exists now only in the gleam of the eyes and the tilt of the head.

This man is still as angry as the boy. Still as confused. Still burning with the fury he felt ten twenty years ago. Still as insulted by cruelty and injustice. Still yearning for peace. Still embarrassed by his clumsiness, his awkwardness, his narcissism, his laziness, his procrastination, his unmet potential.

The man dreams the same dreams as the boy.

He still fears the same fears.

He still doesn't like dogs.

But there are dogs he likes.

He wonders as he stares at this face if the face is the only thing that separates the man from the boy.

Is the only difference between that face and this face time?

Hmm?

His wife says the man is much sexier than the boy.

He tells her to prove it.

But she's tired.

The girl is a woman. And a woman needs rest.

But the man is better than the boy. He's not as fast. He's not as strong. But he's quicker with a joke. He's better with a song or with a tale. He can look a girl in the eyes and tell her what's on his mind. And he knows exactly when that's not appropriate.

He doesn't panic as much as the boy.

He's been places and done things. What once was daunting, is now common place. What once was impossible is now muscle memory.

And the man knows who he is. What he has become. If given a choice, the man knows who the boy would want to grow up to be.

Because he grew up to be the man.

Yet I stare at my face in the mirror with shock and horror.

Rather than with pleasure and grace.

Because the boy wasn't ready to be the man.

And then I pick up my guitar and realize I can't even play like the boy used to play. And when I sing I can't sing like the boy used to sing. And when I joke I am taken seriously. And when I speak people become solemn.

But then I look across the room.

I see that the baby is no longer a baby.

The baby is now a boy.

And the boy will never become a man.

If he has a boy for a father.

So I pick up my guitar again and realize I can still play like the boy. But better. And when I sing, even if I don't have as many notes, each note has depth. And when I joke, people laugh, unless they're still boys and girls and then they probably didn't get the reference in the first place and it makes more sense to hang out with people who do. And when I speak, people become solemn, not because of my age, but because the man exudes a power that the boy could only dream of.

And I still have the boy's dreams.

Which keep me alive.

And I still have the boy's fears.

Which give me ambition.

And I still have the boy's eyes.

Which can send a message of love across a crowded room.

As I have been writing. The baby became a boy. The boy became a man.

And the girl became a woman becoming tired.