Preparing to leave the house
already late, in a hurry,
my youngest son decides
that his attire isn’t proper
for our destination.
“I want shorts, Dad, not long pants,
and another shirt, no, not that one,
no, not that one either,
yeah, that one.”
“No, Dad, not those shorts,
those other ones, no, there,
right there, yeah, those ones.”
I was angry,
late
and angry,
I hurriedly “helped” him dress,
then sadly realized
that he hadn’t brushed his teeth
or combed his hair.
I was becoming later,
and angrier,
by the minute.
I rushed into the bathroom,
combed his blonde, reckless hair,
watched him brush his teeth,
and glanced into the mirror
at the beautiful young boy
and the embarrassed, balding man
in their matching red shirts
and Khaki shorts.
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