I Was Not His
He lay there in that flowered room
And drew his breath, raspy and gasping…trying to draw his breath;
Like an old garden gate about to fall from it’s hinges…
…I was not his
But I sat in the Hospice room
And watched over him…
Because he was mine.
I sat and saw in my mind’s eye
The days he came home from work,
Panting and hurried…but cracking my door with a smile–
The only few moments he had from lunch he had come
To bring me a comic book when I was sick….
Although I was not his.
I sat an saw in my heart’s eye
Being able to do that comes with being adopted–
That awful when day he cried for the first time I’d ever seen him shed tears–
After I moved out into my own place for the first time…
And I saw I hurt him, this man who showed no weakness
…because, that day, he thought I was not his.
And I saw in my soul’s unblinking and unfiltered eye
What was left of this man…at that moment;
Pale, and drawn and in agony…
At the end of a journey..
giving a lifetime of toil, and love, and frustration, and wonder
To a child…a son..
Who was not his.
We said goodbye silently that night.
His breathing stopped.
His worn-out and war-torn body and spirit gave way
And he was released to peace and the embrace of eternity….
And I wept, and screamed, and knotted myself into tangles of grief…
Because, I was not his….and always wanted to be.
He never said those words though;
He always said I was the son he wanted;
That I was it for him;
And he played with me…
And he nurtured me…
And taught me how to love another person…
And gave me his soul—
Even though; I was not his.