When I was young
I had an obsidian arrowhead.
It was chipped away along
the edge
into an oblong
diamond, slightly curved.
I can still remember the irregular sharpness,
the way it cut dents into my skin.
Some memories leave deeper marks on us
than others.
You
will immediately be a siren,
a signal for all my world to stop.
Like the way I rose up from deciphering
the cougar paw print in the mud
in my childhood neighborhood
to stare face to face with a six point buck.
I can still feel the sun caked
brown of that forest.
You will reminisce of barnacles while barefoot,
the sap-laden scrape of pine bark branches
twenty feet up.
You will be all the beauty
and all the mess
of adventure.
I will walk you to rivers
just so we can face the challenge of crossing them.
The way the moss slips feet into tight crevices,
step light and solid all the same.
You with your fragile flimsy newbornness,
me with my steady footing:
We will carve our names
into the trees along these trails.
I will quickly become familiar
with the radiant heat
of your rapid heartbeat,
the shape of your nose,
the soles of your feet.
I will be the connoisseur
of your contraption,
every contrived trace terrain
in face, in hand, in brain.
But, son, you must know that
as you grow
I will love you less in touch or force
with love no less tangible:
trade my deep knowledge
of the texture of your skin
to grasp the contour
of your soul.
