adolescence ovenbird When I knock on his door a stranger answers: a boy who is not a boy and not a man, instead occupying that liminal space in between, dark and flickering, illuminated only by the blue light of a wall mounted monitor. The door opens a tiny crack, a voice from within mumbles “yeah?” It’s a low voice, strange and unfamiliar. I’m not used to it yet, that tumble into the baritone range. No one tells you about this grief, the grief that arises when it hits you that you will never hear your child’s voice again. That small querulous voice, questioning voice, sweet song of a voice that sang “I love you” from a bed with sock monkeys printed on the sheets. Gone. Whatever video you thought to take (and it won’t be enough) is the only access you will ever have to the voice that belonged to your child. Because now he has a new one, and it happened fast, like the tide coming up, surprising you when you’re still too far from shore, and panic rises with the approaching water. What you expect is a gradual change, hardly perceptible. But that’s not how it happens. The change comes all at once. And you’re left gasping at the suddenness, feeling as if something has been stolen right out from under you. The baby, the child, gone. In the morning I insist on a first-day–of-school photo. He indulges me, but barely, standing in the yard, unsmiling, reaching for a face that won’t give away too much. I capture an image and compare it to the one I took last year, same day, same place…and I just can’t believe it, how childhood ends when your back is turned and suddenly you’re faced with a sprawling teen you struggle to recognize. When he’s gone to school I stand in his room, this sanctuary that I’m rarely given access to. The stuffed monkey he’s had since birth is still on his bed, though it’s fallen into the gap by the wall. I retrieve it, kiss its threadbare face, and set it on the pillow. “I thought I had more time,” I say to the scrap of terrycloth and stuffing. It smiles with fraying lips. As I softly close the door, its pale belly seems to glow in the dark. 260908 what's it to you? who go blather from