Fifteen

Today, he is 15, and I am a mother these 15 years. 
This morning, he slept in late, 
and I folded his laundry as a birthday kindness. 
This afternoon, he is off with his friends, 
and I am off to the grocery store, because it is Sunday. 
This evening, he will eat his favorite salmon dinner, 
and I will have cooked it. 
Then he will blow out candles, 
and all will smile and back-pat and joke-make. 
I will do the dishes. 
Then night will descend, and his lights will dim, 
and the subsequent years of his life will start afresh in the morning. 
Tomorrow, he will rise stronger and taller, 
and perhaps even wiser and kinder. 

Today, I am a mother these 15 years. 
And although when he was young I told him stories, 
and sang him songs, 
and recited altruisms, 
and reminded reminded reminded him to put on his shoes, 
today, I say nothing. 
Instead, I listen to his witty stories, 
his soulful music, 
and his beautiful truths, 
as he throws on his shoes and runs out the door
to catch up with his friends
and fly fearlessly into his morning-dawn life.