I’LL TELL HIM TOMORROW

I’LL TELL HIM TOMORROW

From Chicken Soup for the Father & Son Soul

I’ll Tell Him Tomorrow

When my boy was a baby, as small as can be,

I’d hold him so tightly, quite certain he’d see,

How happy I was having him as my son,

Sure that watching him grow would be lots of fun.

I’ll tell him tomorrow, I’d say in my mind,

“This blue bundle of joy is really a find.

I’ll tell him I love him,” when he’ll understand,

When he’s a bit older, we’ll talk man to man.

Although only three, he valiantly tried,

To hold back the tears, when his grandmother died.

He stayed by her side, right up to the end,

Kissing and hugging her, hoping she’d mend.

I’ll tell him tomorrow, I’d say in my brain,

“That compassion is something that can not be feigned.

I’ll tell him I love him,” when he’ll understand,

When he’s a bit older, we’ll talk man to man.

In a blink of an eye, he was leaving for school,

Though just kindergarten, I wept like a fool.

He shared and helped others, and his teacher would praise

Just how special he was, in so many ways . . .

I’ll tell him tomorrow, I’d say in my mind,

“I’m proud he’s so patient, so friendly and kind.

“I’ll tell him I love him,” when he’ll understand,

When he’s a bit older, we’ll talk man to man.

A new baby was born, a pretty, sweet girl,

And I knew from that moment that she’d be his pearl.

He’d protect her from harm, and not let her down,

He’d play with her endlessly, with nary a frown.

I’ll tell him tomorrow, I’d think in my head,

“He thinks not of himself, but of his sister instead.

I’ll tell him I love him,” when he’ll understand,

When he’s a bit older, we’ll talk man to man.

As he played different sports, like baseball for one,

He’d win some and lose some, but always had fun.

It was real hard to tell if he won or he lost;

He never cried or complained—no equipment was tossed.

I’ll tell him tomorrow, I’d say very softly,

“That he’s a good sport,” a trait I hold lofty.

“I’ll tell him I love him,” when he’ll understand,

When he’s a bit older, we’ll talk man to man.

He’s tall, almost twelve, and it’s hard to remember,

The small baby boy, born after September.

His compassion is boundless, he has a good heart.

His kind acts add up, too many to chart.

I’ll tell him tomorrow, I said, not aloud,

“How the way that’s he’s grown has made me quite proud.

I’ll be glad I’m his father, until the end of my days.”

I’ll tell him I love him in so many ways.

Then I turned on the news, and saw a man in great pain,

He was driving his car, in the strong, pouring rain.

He had lost all control and ran into a tree.

His son had rode with him and was killed instantly.

Had that father told his son that he loved him a lot?

Or had he thought, “There’s no worry. Time is one thing I’ve got.”

I thought of my son, and the things I should say.

I decided right then, “I’ll tell him today.”

Lanny Zechar

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