The Shrinking

I'm taller than my father now.

I didn't notice when it happened—

it wasn't sudden,

just the slow mathematics of time

working on both of us

in opposite directions.

My mother's hand on my arm

for balance. She grips it

like I'm the only solid thing

in a room that's moving.

When did I become the thing

she holds onto?

His shoes are too big for his feet now.

Or his feet are too small for his shoes.

Either way, something's not fitting anymore.

The house is the same size.

It's them that's shrinking.

It's me that's growing.

It's the power shifting

like a door opening

that I'm not ready to walk through.

I help her up from the couch.

The effort is small. She weighs

almost nothing.

She thanks me with the politeness

of someone who's becoming a guest

in their own life.

My father doesn't meet my eyes anymore.

He doesn't have to.

He just has to live with the fact

that his son is bigger,

stronger,

the one who decides now

when we leave,

where we go,

how long we stay.

This is what I've been waiting for,

isn't it? This moment

when the roles reverse,

when I become the parent

and they become

the small, breakable things

I have to be careful with.

I hate it.

I hate being tall.