Marmalade

I am becoming my father.

I guess it was inevitable.

I am the one who now has pictures,
in boxes and on walls,
of how young I used to be.

I am the one who now has baby pictures
that look as old as his baby pictures.

There are pictures of wives
and girlfriends
that look like kids.

Now I can see
that I actually was a kid
and so was he.

I am now the one
who takes longer and longer to pee.

And isn’t
accidental gas
a normal part
of the conversation?

Sometimes when I look in the mirror,
when he isn’t paying attention,
I catch him looking back at me.

I still have more teeth,
but now I get the point,
and keep on smiling anyway.

I now realize
just how harmless,
his never-ending interest
in all women
actually was.

When I was a kid
I thought that he had forgotten
more than I would ever know.

Now I know
that I have forgotten
more than I know.

Now I know
how UN-important what I know
actually is,
and yet wish that I knew more.

I still have
more hair than he did,
perhaps ever did,
but the jury is still out on that.

I still don’t like marmalade
but lick blueberry jam
off my pocket knife.

There is still time,
but except for the marmalade,
I am becoming my father.

 

By Charles Buell