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