I am eight years old.
Standing at the door.
Anxious to play in the snow.
"You wearing your boots?" Yes, father.
"Got your scarf? Your mittens?" Yes, father.
"Don give me that look —
Yes, that look —
The one that says Gee dad, do I hafta?...
Because yes, you hafta." Yes, father.
"Someday — " You'll thank me for this.
" — you'll thank me for this." Yes, father.
I am thirty years old.
Standing at the door.
Truly tired of slogging through the snow,
"You wearing your boots?" Yes, dad.
"Got your scarf? Your mittens?" Yes, dad.
And I realize the day has come.
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