For Pops

A child five years old waits
patiently, the door has not
opened for some time, a
dining room chair methodically
collects dust. Three dinner plates
have become two, seemingly overnight.

One kiss upon my forehead, though
different, something new as the
touch and embrace last moments
longer, sometimes met with tears,
silent sobs in the distance when
my bedroom door closes.

A child of six grows older
aware of a new knock upon the door
a new face entering, bearing gifts
a gentle smile, kind words,
an embrace for my mother.
Two slowly becoming three.

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