It's as if I'm looking through a keyhole,

the two of them silhouetted against a future bright.

One looms large, admired, fedora tilted over one eye.

The other?  Innocence, unaware of flaws in his hero.

Youth demands attention; I make excuses,

my heart tender, understanding both as only a mother can.


If only the hero can comprehend,

for a moment look down, truly see how similar they are.

How once he filled my minutes and hours

with words.  Does he remember I listened?

Know I still thrill with the wonder inside him?


Youth needs a hero and he's been chosen.

My youngest and oldest;

boy and young man upon a threshold.

Hero can lend a guiding hand, provide a key

for frontiers yet to be explored.


Worship won't last forever - nor should it.

But the honor, for as long as it is offered,

is a gift few ever recieve.


by Margaret Bedanr, January 27, 2016

This poem is about: 
My family


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