Comfort

 He comes weeping,

  no sobbing.

And for this moment,

  he is my child.

Broken, hurt, needing

  arms to hold.

Acceptance of what is,

  and what he will be.

Tall, gangly, still a boy,

  not yet the man.

And I cherish this,

  because he grew.

Too old to cuddle,

  too old to kiss.

And in this space,

  he's not too old.

Not to old to seek

  the comfort of mom.