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There are instances-- like when he asks
if he can bring his toys to heaven
or hug his bears and bunnies there,
or if he can pack before he goes;
when he must ask of heaven and hell,
where we came from and where we will go,
not unlike Plato, Nietzsche, Hume or Hegel;
when the only answer you can presume
is to seize him tightly with both your hands,
the way they do it in the movies-- up close,
noting nuances like the nape of his neck,
how you've accidentally squeezed,
folded, and bent his tiny cartilaginous ears
in your quick, turbo-loaded big boy embrace--
like Jimmy Stewart in "It's a Wonderful Life"
or Bogart and Bacall in "Casablanca";
when you will squirm in an unearthly haze,
in the awful irony of getting acquainted
while letting him go-- a reminder
that each embrace means farewell,
gain, joy, and uncertain pain. It is much,
so you compromise, believe, buy into--
at least some of the time--
the New Age myth of Eternal Now,
if, for no other reason, it is you--
that same boy philosopher-- vulnerable,
equally frail and now fearfully aged--
who has silently asked of him the same.
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