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MY BABY

I write about my baby.

I have watched him grow.

So have my friends and colleagues, by the way.

My baby is fast catching up with the perils of the ‘teenage kingdom’, giving me acute reminders of my rapid age-ing.

But today, I write for my baby, not myself.

Baby, 15 beckons on you.

It calls you and you run to it with a flaccid tone of assurance.

Your heart beats, though with uncertainty, hoping to speak your truth.

My baby, when you say such things as ‘I want to write’, I wish I could teach you.

But writing, can it really be taught?

Baby, you have to discover YOU.

Your style, your flow; even your attitude as a writer, and as all you desire to become.

When your metacarpals beautifully make those sounds across your wrist joints, baby;
I dare to stand and stare: some of those things you now write, I once said.

Baby, I wish to guide your route to manhood, but really, how can I?

Your growth is entirely yours.

Yours to defend,

Yours to explore and ultimately;

Yours to refreshingly create and concurrently experience.

Baby, grow, will ya?

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