The Prodigal Revisited

Thinking with a tired mind,
I am taken back to memories
of riding on my father's shoulders
because my legs grew tired
trying to keep up with the crowd
at the Boston airport.

How tiny and lost I felt then
amid the swimming sea of faces,
and yet aloft
moving to the buck and sway
of his sure steps
and unfailing stride.
I felt a strength flow through me
like a long thread
plucked and vibrating
with life,
like the star of a game
or a brave hero
hoisted high in celebration.

Now, I look for him--
just for a piece of his coat
to hang onto.
I find myself looking back instead,
to see his arms waving
because I have passed him by,
and he wishes I would come back,
sit awhile and talk,
but the world is moving much too fast.