You Made Me a Father

In the beginning you were an idea.
A question mark every time a stroller passed by.
Then, you were a sign.
A sign invisible to the outside world,
but soon you began to show.
As a heartbeat,
As a bump,
As a kick.

Then you were.
Full throttle noise,
liquid smooth skin.
Fingers wrapped around my thumb.
I held you, hugged you, swallowed you in my arms.
I smelled you.
You marked me.
I learned how to change you faster,
button your snaps,
tickle your tummy with my whiskers.
The sound of your laugh my favorite music.

You grew bigger.
Running to the door at the end of the day.
Throwing food,
throwing toys,
throwing a ball into my hands.

Your hand now fits into mine.
Your feet often run ahead,
climbing over couches, chairs
hiding under tables.
I follow your lead.

Sometimes you look to me for guidance
and I don’t always know what to do
but I try
and try
and sometimes, try again.
Until we make it to the other side
and I hear you laugh, not from my whiskers,
but from the adventure.

I look at you in awe,
my child,
I helped make you
but you made me a father.