Reflected in a mirror—
Peaceful
No longer striving,
No signs of strain…
The kind of face
A boy would choose
For when he became a man
I thought of the portrait
Of my uncle
Dead before I knew him
And somehow
I grew up
To become him
My mother told me
Before he died
He held me and wept
I often wondered
What secrets he kept
Did he see
I’d be
Just like him?
This man in the portrait
Staring into
A dark future…
What did he see
That made him weep?
Did he see
The little I’d become
A failed man,
A disappointment?
Or did he think
I was the hope
Of life to be
Small child
In his arms…
Not yet talking
But encumbered with mystery?