Your size ten sneakers grace our front porch,
too caked with dirt to wear inside,
they greet friends and family as they knock on our door.
I buy groceries as if feeding a football team,
and you willingly carry the bags inside,
then devour half the contents.
Your music blares from your speakers,
announcing to the neighborhood your presence,
as I do my work to its rhythm.
All of this I greet as an adventure, relishing the unexpected hugs,
the parent-son talks, knowing that no matter how old,
you are my sons.
And I love you.
–Anne Skalitza 2018