It’s funny how a boy grows to be a man.
How sometimes all that persists to remind us of once was is the shape of a nose, or the dirt smeared across it; the hungry clutch of fingers; the sunken cavities from which clever eyes gleam.
How as he ages he puts away childish things, or doesn’t; how he wears his toys like trophies, or totems, and believes with all his heart that they matter.
How he keeps the dirt but not the accent. How he never had the accent to begin with.
How he angles his heart away from you.
How he laughs, unguarded, but his smirk never quite becomes a smile.
Maybe I was wrong. Maybe I should say: it’s funny how a man grows to be a boy.