Poem for Gabe at Twenty One

A poem for my son, Gabriel, on his 21st birthday.

In the photo, I hold you, nestled,
scrunched, as still as you will ever be,
not even as long as my arm,
my hair and beard just starting to grey.

With two older siblings to catch,
you are quick from the get-go,
chasing sister and brother up
the backyard hill in bathing suit,
snowsuit, nothing at all.

In Mexico, playing fútbol barefoot with 
all the local kids, chickens and surly dogs,
running, jumping wildly into 
the hot, dry, high-altitude air
to careen down that giant water slide….

A phenom at three at any sport,
endless foam-ball driveway tennis with your big brother,
whacking backyard plastic golf balls, Wiffle balls….
You mastered them all.
“El pollo loco!” your soccer coach dubbed you
for your always crazy-fast-pure play.

Other times, you are still, focused,
playing with the simplest of toys for hours on end—
your football guys, your baseball guys, 
Playmobil and Lego people moving through
those intense interior places in your quick,
inventive mind, then out across the coffee table,
or in a corner of a room, a cat, dog, always curling close by. 

Watching movies with animals in them,
any animals, but dogs especially,
you’d clutch my arm to ask if anything bad might happen.
If I didn’t have a good answer, you’d simply leave.

Child of crazy motion and deep emotion,
child of furious, serious, joyful play,
child of long Maine hammock snuggles,
bass fishing tandem kayak partner…
now somehow all of these and always altogether new. 

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