by Jim Farfaglia
Sitting in the bleachers,
watching that 3-pointer leave your fingers,
after watching you practice it for hours
under our streetside basket.
Seeing it follow my hopes,
as it falls through the net.
Listening in the audience,
picking out your voice
from all your chorus mates.
Hearing it hit that satisfying high note
that you reached for, time and again,
rehearsing behind your bedroom door.
All the firsts –
that afternoon nap,
you a warm football against my chest,
listening to your baby’s breath rise and fall.
All the lasts –
that June morning,
you proudly robed in school colors,
watching as you walk into life.
And all the dreams,
once offered to you as gifts,
now sweetly returned
on this day.