I learned today that someone I thought I knew wasn't.
She was embezzling — no better word — to cover gambling debts.
Second time.
Arrest, charges, and so on. Ugly, ouch.
First time her husband stood with her. No idea about now.
A few years back someone I loved turned, said things. Said I had done
things. Which I had not. So maybe I understand dilemmas. After all, my
love hasn't gone away.
Her husband, then, stuck with her. Wanted to believe she had changed.
I have no children, but I have known a few I would father if I could.
You've seen the ads. Sad sentimental music, sepia scenes, boy playing
catch with … himself.
I really don't understand a lot of this. How is it that one kind of
human relationship, shown to be faulty, is sanctioned … while another,
shown to be pure, isn't?
And why is it that despite my vulnerability I still wish to father, to
cherish, to adore a child not my own? Is it unnatural for me, as a man,
to want to hug a boy?
Is it unnatural for me to wonder that?
How is it that I can still put my heart and future into the hands of
anyone? Especially a kid just starting high school (arguably the least
stable entity in the universe)?
Why can't I just adopt a son? Find one bright kid, look into his smile,
and say, "Yeah, that's the one — that's the one"?
[I know who I'd pick. I'd die for him, and I know he feels a lot of it;
if he didn't, he wouldn't squirm like he does when we talk about it.]
But fuck. Michael Jackson and second guessing.
Gods, what a whine to wake up to: "Get going — school."
"Aww, Dad, do I haveta…?"
Yes, son. You do. And you go there with my unconditional love. Here's
your backpack, your breakfast, and your hug.
Son.
Son, my son.
But apparently it makes more sense to leave kids in the hands of people
who leave them to die in closed cars, or in swimming pools. (How
fucking hard is this to figure out?)
It Takes A Family, Santorum, you cunt (you will never be forgiven for
the bestiality thing); but it takes a village too. And most of all it
needs men who will stand up and say yes. Give me that one. Let him be
my boy. Let me be his daddy. Let me be his heartbeat, and let his tears
be mine.
But I guess you can't hear us over the sound of canine K-Y in your
perverse imaginings.
There is no part of these wrongs which can be justified.
--
Warren Ockrassa, Publisher/Editor, nightwares Books
http://books.nightwares.com/
Current work in progress "The Seven-Year Mirror"
http://www.nightwares.com/books/ockrassa/Flat_Out.pdf
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