Thinking of My Three Sons

Because I have just one-and-a-half more weeks to go before I hit the freeway to get to work again, I decided to tidy up one of the cabinets in the living-room. What would normally take me about an hour took me thrice as long because the cabinet holds photo albums, long-ago gifts, loose pictures, old receipts, planners, cd's, dvd's, etc. (you name it, it is there). In one of the albums, I found inserted a yelowish antique looking sheet of paper. I almost couldn't read half of the printed poem, but the title and the poet's name are still clear. I can't remember anymore if someone gave it to me, or if I found the poem myself, but I know it is very very old. I must have kept it thinking of my three sons.

To My Grown-Up Son
by Alice E. Chase

My hands were busy through the day,
I didn't have much time to play
The little games you asked me to,
I didn't have much time for you.

I'd wash your clothes; I'd sew and cook,
But when you'd bring your picture book
And ask me, please, to share your fun,
I'd say, "A little later, son."

I'd tuck you in all safe at night,
And hear your prayers, turn out the light,
Then tiptoe softly to the door,
I wish I'd stayed a minute more.

For life is short, and years rush past,
A little boy grows up so fast,
No longer is he at your side,
His precious secrets to confide.

The picture books are put away,
There are no children's games to play,
No goodnight kiss, no prayers to hear,
That all belongs to yesteryear.

My hands once busy, now lie still,
The days are long and hard to fill,
I wish I might go back and do,
The little things you asked me to .