You wear adolescence like armour:
hair just so,
training-wheel moustache tickling your lip
—curled in perpetual distain—
impossibly long limbs and
clothes giving the illusion of 
effortless care.

I want to smash it crack it open
reveal the gooey baby interior of
the boy whose feet I kissed before he could walk
whose sticky fingers reached for my hand 
while sporting a joyful mashup of
clone trooper mask Hogwart’s robes matching nail polish
and foam sword. 

It’s a phase, I am told by a tottering
pile of self-help books and a playlist
of shiny-faced YouTube psychologists.
You, who leapt up into my arms when I 
least expected it
now stare down at me with doubt and distain 
(if you look at me at all)
and when angered
dig out the deepest parts you know of me 
to hit the hardest.

I wonder where you’ve gone.

But then 
you envelop me in an octopus hug
call me ‘little mama’ while you dance 
just for me, not stopping until 
I’m laughing through tears 
(I am still the audience you most desperately 
want to please)
and I catch glimpses of you
when your eyes seek out mine
during sappy movie moments
because you know what makes me cry
and you wordlessly pass a tissue. 

You fill my heart and break it 
a hundred times a week.

I can’t help but love you forever and fiercely
and can’t wait to meet you again.

Christina Grant is a teacher who finds it easier managing a classroom full of adolescents than the two who live with her. Her writing has appeared in literary magazines such as “Gathering Storm” and “Fiction War” and her YA speculative fiction novel, ‘Being Human’, is available on line and in print. She can be found on twitter @cgrantwriter or on her website: cgrantwriter.com.