become mere shadows, paper dolls of
who they were, the lives they truly led,
but understandable with one like Adam,
who could make us laugh as easily as make
us mad, who had the winning grin, the catcher's
keenness that was always plays ahead
in midst of baseball game. When angry, he'd lash out at sisters, me, his dad or brother, coming back in minutes for forgiving hug. He got into a fight once, had a shiner, too. Chagrined, he hid
away until I made him let me see,
but he was proud they fought as men, staying on their feet
and parting, once it ended, as close friends.
I only know of one who failed to be impressed
by Adam's winning ways, the jealousy so evident
it made me wince when seeing them together.
He must be twenty-nine now, same as Adam would
be had his life not ended at sixteen. I wonder if
he grew up well or if his bitterness at being less
than Adam ever healed. I wonder if he thinks
of him, the boy he sought to be but never could,
now that he's become a man, as my son never will.
(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013
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