Sky of His Eye

The Kiss (1845-1848) by Honoré Daumier

Church starts in 15, and I’m still getting dressed,

Fingers flying down the buttons on my chest.

Sure as Christ did rise, my boy is watching me;

He’s buttoning his own, one in every three.

If I listen close through iron hitting floor

I can hear his little grunts—1, 2, 3, 4.

He tells me to look, puffing out his bare chest,

And if I don’t squeeze his arm, he’ll never rest.

He marches his bare feet right in front of mine

And looks up at me with those big eyes that shine.

With pajamas wrinkled and hair all nappy,

He tells me his nap made him big like daddy.

Oh Lord, that little man will never know

How much growing his old man has to go.

So when I bend down to tell him how big he is,

I tell myself to have a heart big as his.

Every son comes with a big red cape

Tailored to dad, no matter his shape.

I hope one day mine will fly as high

As it does in the sky of his eye.

Dedication: To my hero, Hugo