The Lost Years
The photos stopped
when you were 10 or 11.
Around that time, you started refusing to
have your pictures taken.
A few candid shots are all I’ve
managed since then.
In them, the look on your face is growing inward,
as a cocoon slowly encloses you in a
translucent mystery,
turning you into a dark silhouette
as you start to construct your
own parallel universe,
in a tug of war with a thousand things
you are just starting to learn the meaning of,
morphing into what the world will know,
what I will, with any luck,
recognize only with squinted eyes
when the cocoon reopens.
For now, I can’t see you.
All I can do is wait.
Copyright © Bernard Chan | Year Posted 2018
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