by Lindsey May Stone

Created on: June 12, 2008

I remember,
When he turned 30,
The taut skin,
Of his forehead,
Gave way to gravity,
Sinking with the rise of responsibility.

I remember,
When he turned 30,
The creases between his brows,
Cemented in place,
I always tried to push them apart,
With my two little fingers.

I remember,
When he turned 30,
Silver threads shot out obscurely,
From his scalp,
His nose,
His ears.

I remember,
When he turned 30,
His tired back continued,
To buck and bronc,
Four not-so-little cowgirls,
And one little cowboy,
Across the carpet desert;
Resting for the night at the oasis,
While we played on.

I remember,
When he turned 30,
His old, worn tennis shoes,
Soles flapping in the wind,
Were finally replaced,
With a new pair,
Which would last him,
Until he was 40.

I remember,
When he turned 30,
A last five-dollar bill,
Was pinched from his tattered wallet,
And placed in my ten-year old hands,
While he smiled,
And went,
Without.

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