The Boy and the Man

The Boy

A small boy sits on the edge of the room,
where voices have just slammed the door shut.
His feet don’t reach the floor,
but the silence does.

His mother’s face is folded in on itself,
tears slipping down like apologies
she never owed.
Her shoulders shake
an earthquake he can’t stop.

He learns early
how heavy a grown man’s shadow can be,
how words can bruise without leaving marks.
His hands are too small for shields,
his voice trapped behind his teeth.

So he watches.
That is all he can do.
He memorizes the sound of crying
and the taste of helplessness,
swearing quietly to no one
that this feeling will not be wasted.

The Man

Years passed, the man stands taller than the memory,
with two daughters tugging at his hands,
their laughter stitched into his days.

And now
he cannot bear a woman’s tears.

Not because they are weak,
but because he knows their weight.
He sees the boy again
every time a voice sharpens,
every time silence turns cruel.

So he softens first.
He listens longer.
He chooses words like they might break
something sacred.

He builds rooms where crying is not caused,
only comforted.
He steps between storms and hearts,
even when no one asks him to.

Because once,
he was small and powerless.
And now
he is not.