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"Growing Pains", by Duane Dodson
Copyright © 1998, Age 42

(Through her eyes)

My baby is dying of old age.

He is not yet two, but already I can see
His movements wizening into some kind of infant structure
Like experience into words,
Or like the visceral into the mnemonic.

Experience never meant to become words, you know.
That is less graduation than aberration.

Pure baby equals pure innocence.
But purity is compromised with time.
At the very least, it is at risk to lose its integrity.

His hair is almost about his shoulders.
Why must I have it sheared, formatting my baby into infancy...
Marching him into toddlerhood like a soldier into boot camp?

I have to take pictures for remembrance.
And the impressions they render are bittersweet--
For he is too young to be thought of in the past tense.

This is part of the pain I feel when I look at him.
That he is learning how to work for what he wants,
Instead of just crying for it.

How can this be good for him?
He is growing and dying at the same time!

And so is his mother.

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