To the little boy who wore butterfly wings (A Poem)

Those butterfly wings you insisted on wearing to the supermarket now lay discarded in a box.

They haven’t been touched in six months, maybe more.

That army jacket you couldn’t believe I bought for you, left hanging on the back of your bedroom door. When was the last time you wore it? Why didn’t I get a photo?

I asked you the other day if you wanted to wear it. You said maybe tomorrow.

I know you’re trying to make me feel better, my sweet boy.

You can tell I’m finding it hard.

I feel like you see me trying to scoop up the grains of your innocence and imagination that used to run through your veins.

Scooping it up and trying to pour it back into you but it slips through my fingers.

I can’t get a hold of it.

It’s not that I want you to be little forever, I love every part of you, every stage.

But a little while longer would be nice.

You see you wore your creativity and weirdness like a badge of honour before.

You were confused that time we went to a wedding and I said you couldn’t wear an Elmer costume.

(Oh how I wish I’d let you wear the Elmer costume!)

But now you care what others think and notice when they laugh.

You don’t realise yet that they’re so consumed with their own insecurities, seeing someone free makes them uncomfortable.

I so love who you are and who you’re becoming don't ever think I don't. 

But I miss who you were. 

What I wouldn't give for just five more minutes with my little boy in butterfly wings.