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Outdoor concert on a lovely evening in June

children running back and forth absorbed

in everchanging games, rolling down the

grassy hill, ignoring for the most part the

genius of Brahms, Massenet, Sousa,

pulling at my heart to bend over those

pages of my own sons’ childhoods and

even mine, so very long ago.

That one little boy, in a sweater vest,

necktie, no shirt, looking somehow

French–did he insist on that tie

in the way of headstrong little boys

knowing what he likes, being strictly

his own person, impervious as yet

to the dull demands of convention?

How now is the boy who, years ago

at my sons’ preschool wore a Superman

costume for days on end demanding

that he be called Superman or only

in a pinch Clark Kent?  Has his fierce

own self remained true and steadfast

through the years unwavered by the

insistent voices that call day in day out?

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