Lost Boy

I lost my son fall of 2006.
He was five
but there was no funeral
there was no casket, no hollowed out in the autumn receiving
what use to be him
no flowers, no cards, no covered dishes, no I'm sorry for your loss.

Just the unending obituary of a boy that keeps moving and breathing
and growing without me.

I never changed his room.

It remains a shade of blue too dark to be covered by layers of white paint
contrasted with eerily inappropriate cartoon characters
to jovial to inhabit this,
home turned bachelor pad turned shrine turned solitary chamber of excess.

I don't need this yard anymore.
There is no one to run here.

I don't need this third bedroom. So I'll just
walk by it everyday as if it's not inhabited by the ghost
of a boy whose not dead.

I wanted to fight for him.
I would have fought for him.

But according to the law biology is the only proof of paternity.
In legal terms labeled a nobody, who changed his diaper when he was nine years old
and potty changed him at two.

A stranger who cradled him in my arms when the crash of thunder awoke him.
Every night-night story.
Every prayer kiss and check under the bed for monsters.
Every good night sleep tight.
Every daddy loves you
all examples of fatherhood inadmissible to the court for lack of DNA evidence.

But though we are not blood related,
make no mistake I would bleed for him.

Every last drop.

I would lay down my life like any good father because the word step
was never in my vocabulary.

When I married his mother, it was a package deal.
We stood hand and hand, the three of us before God
Vowing to be a family.

Things didn't work out between his mom and me
but divorce decrease can't divide the link between father and son.

Five years later, I see him on occasion
but it's different now.

Time heals all wounds
but severed limps don't grow back.

He's ten now.
Fourth grade.

Five feet tall.
He likes science and robots and star wars.
He's still afraid of needles.

The other day, he almost called me dad.
His lips forming a forgotten phrase

I want to tell him it's ok
but like him I somehow know it's now inappropriate.

Out of frustration he asks me who I am.

With all the love within me I answer
I don't know
but I use to be your father.