Simeon

You bring me your son, a swaddling little toddler.
No different than the other thousands of sons
I have seen in my aging career: he cries the same, 
His laughter, that of a week's practice,
Which really isn't saying much; 
It's more of a close-eyed hiccup-grunt.
He sleeps like anyone else,
Wakes up to let you know he's passed the food test.
And oh yes! he's got that stink kids his age have,
You know the one I'm talking about.
His eyes, deep, but no rare color, 
Perhaps the same as yours, Rose,
But I dare not look into the heart of purity.

Maybe you and Joe and your son
Live in a home no poorer, no more lavish
Than all your neighbors with young boys.
Maybe someday he'll take up the family trade.
We sure could use someone who'd work with his hands, 
Learn to love the sound of hammer, nail, and fallen tree.
God, he really doesn't look that different.
So why am I crying?  Am I sad?
This is just some kid, from some mom,
From some city 100 miles North of here.
So. What.
Why can I not hold back that skittish feeling,
That standing-on-the-abyss 
of the world as we've known it, and life to come?

Some inexplicable joy ravages my heart,
And across my confused countenance 
Breaks a tearful smile: "It's him." 
I don't know how, I just do. Game-changer.
Anna, shut up! Get out of my head.
I know what you're thinking.
But can't I just savor this for a moment?
A dear friend, more ancient than the rest,
Once promised me something, and now I can go.  
Now I will find him,
Or, better yet, he'll find me.

Old chum, peacefully you let me depart,
You gave me your Word, your life, your own,
And I have held him.
In my tired arms, with aged soul,
I have held all that is, all that shall be:
Salvation, Light, Glory.
May it ever be as when you spoke your first Word.