The afternoon light
On the young boy’s face,
That other me from long ago.

I’m holding his image with middle-aged hands,
Shaped by the passage of accumulated instants.

I see myself reflected in that young boy’s eyes,
Or perhaps it’s the other way around.
It may even be the case, that there is no
Continuity, no fluid narrative that exists,
That we are two separate beings.

Still, If I could, in an instant, enter his heart,
My heart,
I would tell him the story of who we are,
Of the potential, buried deep, which must not be squandered.
Of having to pursue his passions and beliefs
And never just follow,
Like some automaton, a prescribed path,
An expected narrative,

Look carefully I would say, 
And don’t miss the simple joys,
Of ordinary days,
Of heartfelt connections,
Of being in the moment.