Being big is not easy.
Being small is not easy.
Life ruins us.
Makes our feet flat.
Cuts our hands.
Becomes a habit
and compels us to eat
too much,
and say no to peace,
until a light appears,
a swagger,
a confidence
that charms us into submission.
So it was
when Jackie came in the room.
A smile of maturity
on his three-year-old face.
Arrival.
Man about town.
Hands in his pockets,
in his red trousers.
Nonchalance.
Notice my hands,
his appearance said.
I’m a big kid now.
I’ve arrived.
He took his hands out
and put them in.
Peeking from the sides of his eyes,
I’m cool Papa, they said.
Inviting my approval.
Solemnly I asked,
what are you doing Jackie?
Hands in your pockets?
“Yeah,” he replied, walking past.
Big kid.
One of the gang.
I was charmed, impressed.
Being little is not easy I thought,
except for Jackie
who was big now,
on his way.
Being big is not easy I thought,
unless you know Jackie,
and how to be cool.