The night sky seemed to fervently fill with stars and I sit staring, fighting the evening chill, just a little longer as always, feeling connected to this display of plethora as though at peace with the universe, rather comical in light of my failures.
The failure to right the wrongs as they hold in fatherhood, over children brought with willing care into this world but missing the kind of certainty that was my fervent wish to provide. So sorry am I, so misconstrued I feel are my endeavors, that I am left with the hollow hope that they will be able to strike firmly an imprint worthy of emulation, with no less conviction than I envisioned for them.
How can I feel, after all these years of selfless caring for my destitute son, that he is now like an apparition I have been chasing. Trying to convince others of his existence that they should care as I do. Where is he if not only in my mind? Where can he be seen or heard, his laughter muted through walls, hidden no less than a stream of words that scream in my ears, only my ears.
I keep my hair neatly cropped for fear of appearing disheveled, controlling more so those things since all other control is awash in fear. How I long for that fine lather of contentment, not brought out of necessity but rather from a lack of necessity. Ahh, when we were children we dared to hope, we didn't forgive because in a split second the next moment had come to dowse us with new experiences and we were giddy.
I'd say we slept well and any aches were aches of growing. I wish that beautiful ache on my son, whose life is filled from an invisible cup, from which you nor I can ever taste.