when was the last time you hugged him?
when was the last time you cared
to know how his day went?
do you even see him there?
you’re too preoccupied by other things
more important than the one who matters the most
when will you realize you’re drifting farther away
every time you think the worst –
that the little boy you wanted is different
he’s not like all the other boys
he doesn’t play or talk like everyone else
the words he says are not noise
So see him, look at him,
tell him you care
play games with him, be there for him
don’t let him just stand there
waiting for you to see him
waiting for you to care
wanting nothing more than an embrace
from the father who’s not really there.
When I look at my son, I see his love for his father
and his father’s love for him
undying, never wavering
something that stems only from within
Yet when I think of my own father,
the well of memories run dry
there’s a bit of this, a snippet of that
there’s not a lot, no matter how hard I try
but one memory does stand out,
and it’s an obscure one at best
it’s when I woke up from surgery
and there he was, holding my hand, at rest
his eyes were closed, as if he were sleeping
and when I stirred, he, too, awoke
stroking my hand, avoiding the pic line
my own voice barely a croak
“Anesthesia can give you amnesia,” he said
“and I hope that you’re okay.”
But I knew then that even if I forgot all
I’d never forget that day
For that’s the only time I ever saw him
so vulnerable and so alone,
he loved me the best he ever could
doing everything so I could stand on my own.
But amnesia hits me now as I sit here
thinking of moments that we once shared
for all that comes is when he stroked my hand that day
a hero so vulnerable, his greatest weakness bared.