You Should Have Seen Your Boys

Λεωνίδα,

you should have seen your boys
this summer.

They stood at the edge
of the Aegean
with a friend,

three young men
looking into water
so clear
the stones seemed close enough
to touch.

I watched them
from above,

their shoulders
dark from the sun,

their shadows
reaching ahead of them
into the sea.

You never knew them
this tall.

There are whole versions
of your sons
you never met.

Their voices changed.

Their faces changed.

Their feet grew
into men’s feet.

They learned things
you should have been there
to teach them,

and other things
they would have taught you.

They became themselves,

slowly enough
that those beside them
hardly noticed,

quickly enough
that you would scarcely
know where the boys ended

and these young men
began.

Today is your birthday.

I wonder what you would see
if you were standing
beside me.

Perhaps the things
only a father sees.

Something in the way
one of them stands.

A turn of the head.

Your own hands
at the ends
of their arms.

The sea came in
around their feet

and went back.

They laughed
at something
I could not hear.

And for a moment

I turned
toward the place
where you should have been

and almost said,

Look.

Λεωνίδα,

look at your boys.