Being the only son of parents who
abandoned their children as easily as one
walks to the grocery store -- one
sleeping pills, the other the peculiar balance of
status and anonymity that only money
affords, -- I stand, perhaps, too closely to
my own girl, always on guard,
hovering, worrying myself into sleeplessness.
I am nothing if not vigilant, an occasional
nuisance of concern, golden retriever of a father
at the gate, barely blinking, awaiting my cue.
When she races up the steps of her school,
confident in a way which I never was,
my pride mingles with a tinge of unspoken grief.
Still, I want nothing more than to be taken
for granted, to never be known as an absence.
I want for her the autonomy of knowing,
for love to be as constant and as easily forgotten
as the silent pulse of blood at wrist
and ankle, and my hand upon her shoulder
when she hurts, drawing circles
on her back, comforting, not only her
but the child no longer there.
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