What About Michael?

I was a girl of 13 once.
13 when my dad told me were moving.
"What about Michael?" I cried
About a boy I called my boyfriend.
"Who's Michael?" he dared ask about the blond bowlcut boy by the lockers,
always in corduroys losing their ribbing.
We moved, making room for other teenage drama.

You are a boy of 3 now.
You're mad when she plays without you.
You're sad when she funnies her face in a manner you don't get.
Her name seems to dive and swim in your head,
Along with the wee silver hoops, pink cowgirl boots, and mussy red hair.
Sometimes I expect to find her living in our house.

Your friendships deepen and rise every day,
creations of your own, not mine.
I explore with you your joy and pain,
without explaining it.
But I know those mountains, as well the hypoxia
that can seem to take your life.
Oh, dear boy, can all of this really be starting so soon?