These are the feet of Bryson Evan.

When they get large enough,

They’ll wriggle out from the wrappings of their blanket and learn

About the coolness of tile and the tickliness of grass.

They’ll stand and hold the weight of a boy.

They’ll work their way around the edges of a wooden coffee table

All the while marking their path with toothmarks and boo boos.

They’ll walk.  Heel, toe.  Heel, toe.  They’ll run.

In the evening they’ll get scrubbed clean in the bath before padding down the hallway

In slippers and jammies for stories and just another glass of water,

And please, please just one more story and I’m still thirsty.

When they’re large enough, they’ll step up into a yellow bus

And ride to the school two miles from home.

They’ll outrun the bully and shuffle through math and history.

They’ll learn to dance.

One day they’ll find how the gas pedal in a car makes distance

Between what is mom and dad … and what is out there.

And they’ll go to college and they’ll get married and they’ll

Walk behind a mower, flinging the pungency of grass

Across the yard of their newly-mortgaged home.

And then one day, not really very far from now,

They’ll hurry down a hospital corridor so they don’t miss

The moment when another baby boy

Feels the first cool draft of air on his

Pink and trembling feet.

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