The Last Time

The last time that I lifted you was light —
your cleats still damp with grass and summer sweat.
You laughed against my shoulder in the dusk;
I did not know my arms would empty then.

The last time that I held you in a hug
you wriggled free, already half a man.
I said, “All right,” and let you find the door.
I did not know the doorway was a line.

The last goodbye was casual and quick—
a nod, a wave, a “See you after school.”
I turned back to the small, consuming tasks.
I did not know that time had shut a gate.

The last time that you played beneath the lights,
your stick a metronome against the turf,
I watched you cradle, cut, and fire high —
the net snapping like a flag against the wind.
I clapped, I shouted something about form.
I did not know the clock was counting more
than seconds slipping off a scoreboard face.

The last lunch came on some unmarked day —
three trays, three voices rising over fries.
You argued calls and laughed at private jokes.
I checked my phone; I thought of work and bills.
I did not know the table would grow wide
and quiet as a field in winter frost.

We never know which moment bears the weight.
The ordinary hour conceals its edge.
The final time arrives without a drum,
no darkened sky, no angel drawing breath.
It moves inside the habit of the day
and passes, dressed in common, borrowed clothes.

Now I would lift you though my back protest,
would hold the hug a second longer still,
would mark the goodbye with a steadier gaze,
would watch each ground ball as if it were
the last bright planet circling my sight.
I’d taste the lunch and let the silence wait.

But fathers learn too late the cost of haste:
the last time does not tell us it is last.
It comes and goes while we are looking past.

~ for my sons